It would be so nice if something made sense for a change.

The pain in my chest has been unusually persistent the past few days. I am no longer able to distinguish why my heart hurts. I used to be so sure it was a lack of nutrition when I didn’t eat, or too much stress when I had a lot on my mind. Now, however, it tends to hurt all day in spite of my eating habits or To-Do List. I can’t say I really care why it hurts anymore though. It’s useless worrying over something out of my control, and to be honest a lack of restful sleep leaves me lethargic and I’d rather waste my energy on more important things like getting out of the house or cleaning. Besides, if it gets that bad I suppose I’ll take myself to the doctors.

Speaking of doctors, I would like to make a note of the awkward atmosphere that stifles waiting rooms at the doctor’s office. It’s an asphyxiating feeling, really,. As you sit there wondering what everyone else is waiting to be seen for you know they’re doing the same thing about you (and of course its impossible to think of anything but the worst; terminal illnesses, senility, etc). Doctor’s offices are just mini airports.

But anyway, let’s talk about something with a more humorous substance. As of late, I have learned my mother thinks I am on drugs.
Are you laughing yet, because I am.
I can understand why you might not see the humor in it, so let me explain. You see, very little about my presence projects the image of “druggy” or “tweaker” and the most outstanding thing influencing my mother to think I do drugs is a book. A few months ago when I still lived in Florida, my mother came to visit. With her, she brought the book Beautiful Boy by David Sheff. The book is memoir, written by a man who’s son has battled meth and heroin addictions since he was a teenager. Here’s where it get’s kind of funny. You see, my mother gave me the book telling me she bought it because it “looked like something I would read” and she knew Beautiful Boy is my favourite John Lennon song. I, however, expected her of suspecting I was into drugs already because I do tend to talk about substance abuse quite a bit. After reading it, and its counterpart Tweak, I found the differences in the two books extremely intriguing. Doing what any avid reader would do, I recommended my mother read the books so I could see if she got the same things out of them as I did. I’m sure you can see the hilarity in the situation now? Anyway, she ended up reading Beautiful Boy, and somewhere in the there she started thinking I wanted her to read the book because I have a drug problem but I don’t know how to tell her. Since she’s not experienced with drug addiction I don’t think she realizes its not something people talk about nonchalantly when it’s a problem they deal with on a day to day basis. Clearly, I am not doing drugs but I can admit that they fascinate me. Anything that alters your state of mind fascinates me though. So it’s not the substances, it’s the result of substances. I have to admit though, I am unsure how I should feel about the entire situation. And I’m really hoping she doesn’t confront me on it because conversations like that make me uncomfortable. In any way, if I had a problem I would be able to admit if it was beyond my control, and that’s regarding anything. I’m fine taking care of things myself for now so anyone trying to force there way in will only make things uncomfortable.

And that’s that. There’s not much else I can say, but I can sit here and laugh for a little longer. I know I probably shouldn’t, but it’s the only reaction I can compose.