I just wrote an amazing essay in my head on the walk up to the fifth floor of the library. Like it was actually gold, something Socrates would have written: a perfect blend of sociological analysis of humans and the inner-workings of my mind. And now I can’t remember anything. All I remember is thinking about the walk up to the fifth floor of the library. How scary it is, each cement step leads me closer to that commitment. It’s a big promise: for as long as I am on this floor I will be dead silent and studious. Boy it’s hot up here, like a pressure cooker. Wearing tight black pants today was a bad decision, even though they cut off at the knee. I feel so deceptive right now, I’m click-clacking away on my keyboard and the people around me must think I am cranking out an intense English essay. I know exactly how I look right now too. Good posture, caffeinated fingers and my eyes completely focused on the screen ahead of me. I am almost convinced of myself: that I’m doing actual homework. But no, it’s just me writing. Because despite the mid-term and 70-question tests I have tomorrow, I am inhibited from studying until I finish writing this. This is my detox of the brain, although I’m sweating so much right now I’m probably detoxing my body too. Keep in mind I am not wearing deodorant. Back to my brain yes, this complicated machine I keep hidden in the middle of my giant head. People too often tell me how badly they wish they could see what occurs in my brain. Get in line folks, it’s mine, and because it’s mine I could probably tell you the most about it, since I know. What I presume happens, due to a constant repeat of patterns, is that my brain fills up with words. It fills up with so, many, words. They swim around and pound against my skull. I talk so much and still more words words words. It’s endless I swear. I write in a diary almost every night and that’s still not enough. By the time I actually sit down and grab my pen and notebook, I am so exhausted I just briefly outline what I did that day and maybe include something about a cute boy. Haha, who am I kidding “maybe” I always talk about boys I love boys its just my problem I am always talking about a boy. Anyway the point is, is that those words don’t count. They don’t carry much weight or take up very much space in my brain. It’s the other words, the feelings and emotions and abstract ideas that just kind of grow and develop like tiny bacterial infections. Those words that I don’t even notice I have: every once in a while they bubble over in my brain and I have no other choice but to just let them out. I have to, otherwise I will never be able to study or talk to anyone or really do anything. I get trapped in that world of heavy words, maybe trapped is the wrong thing to say because it sounds bad. Trapped. No, I get clouded with the heavy words. That sounds much prettier. I think. I don’t know. I don’t write these things to sound pretty. I’m the only one whose going to read this maybe besides a friend. I’ll find this essay and be like what the fuck was going on in my head, and call up someone and be like “I know it’s conceited maybe but you have to read this paper I wrote” just for kicks. Wow I wrote a lot. I can’t even begin to try and re-read this it’s overwhelming. Oh man it’s hot up here. Wowza. Yikes. Okay. This is ending on a stupid note now. So to just finish it off the last word of this essay is going to be donkey.