A storm of ineptness has ravaged my brain lately. I feel like I cannot accomplish anything, anything at all, like buying seeds to plant flowers. Like finishing a simple short fiction piece, or unpacking my fucking clothes from the tattered cardboard boxes that line the walls of my room. I feel like I cannot speak and I cannot write. I feel like I am floating aimlessly in this world, and despite how much I tell people I have enjoyed my three week vacation from school, work and reality, I have felt like a big bumbling moron fucking, fucking, fucking up. All I have been doing is exerting my body on bikes, in pools and on road runs, stopping only for a brief moment to stuff my face to refuel. The starches, the sugars, the fucking repulsive high fructose corn syrups, the lean proteins--- they all funnel into my work, work, working body. Never do they go to my brain. 

Although I am eating more than I used to--justifiable tonight only because I angrily swore to myself I would stay up to write--I feel that eire, powerful wave of emptiness rising up from the pit of my stomach. 

This time is for rest, for relaxation, for refuel, for sleeping until noon without parents hassling you. This is what I am supposed to think. I am supposed to be cool with not going out to bars with old friends. Without spending days lazily smoking bowls and going on epic adventures through the woods and taking dainty fairy steps to cross narrow streams. Without the beach. 

Without, with-

Without you. I am supposed to be so happy, so full. Alone. 

Really, it is not as bad as I've made it out to be. Really, I think I am extremely nervous to to start an internship.  

I do not care if I am not good enough for you, she thought, standing in front of her mother's bathroom mirror. She turns away from the mirror, bends down to quickly slather lavender lotion on her hairless legs, her thighs concave sacks of yellow flesh thrown over long bones. She sneaks a peak at the mirror behind her, and can see her hip bones proudly saluting the ceiling underneath her skin. Running up her back is a single-file line of vertebrae presenting  themselves like soldiers aligned for inspection. They hope to win her gaze too. 

Good enough for you? Hah, what a joke, she mused. She smiled. To reveal her pearly, only slightly crooked teeth. It looked as if a strong hand was pulling her skin from the back of her head, tightening the skin over her face. Like the hand was ready to scalp her. A veil of clear gloss lay on her lips, normally fraught with white from the cold summer breeze, or chapped from snarling winter winds. 

Good enough for you? Tonight I am good enough for me, she lied and licked her bottom lip. The assurance invigorated her.  She turned slowly to the side, like a suspect in a police line up. She shot another glance at the mirror and sucked in hard. Her stomach retreated and she put her hands on her hips and I am doing this for me. She pulled up her skin tight jeans and I am doing this for me, no one else. She smiled. Her eyes laughed deep green pools and knife sparkles.