I don't really know what I'm doing.
I think my metabolism is being screwy.
My head hurts and my body insists that I'm having hot flashes.
I took pain killers.
No effect.

I'm sleeping on the couch tonight because it's better than my bed. Softer, warmer, safer, more soothing. My bed is too big, too empty.
I can't decide if I'm a moron or I'm sick, or both.

I keep having these intense memories of being depressed, of hating myself and all that wonderful stuff.
It's weird because when I open my eyes I can smile and remember how wonderful life is.
The two views are very contradictory. I think it's rather amusing.

I admit I still have a soft spot in my heart for Dartmouth. I also have a very hard spot, but it's the soft spot that's making me long for the Hop, and the science buildings, and the long walk out to the River Cluster. I'm lonely for independence and it's the only place I ever had it.

Depression hurts.
Memories of depression hurt.
Just keep believing that the world is wonderful.
Have you seen the moon? The stars?
Have you ever seen a New England fall?
I wonder if I could spend the summer in Vermont with Cacky and Duffy. It would be so delightful.
My heart misses its home, too.
And I miss Pete, despite Barb and her insecurities.
Maybe I'll write my book.
My book.
That sounds silly.