Life is Mad

The apartment, four hundred dollars a month. The oven is so small you can't bake a normal pizza in it, only those little personal pans, and half the time it decides to burn them anyway. There's a bedroom by the living room with a decently sized closet, but you have to squeeze into the angled doorway. Sometimes my jacket gets caught in the locking mechanism. My zipper fell off three weeks ago, and it's freezing outside.

My routine is mad. Wake up at 6:50 AM, groan. Microbiology at eight, anatomy and physiology at ten, organic chemistry II: the sequel at eleven. Study group for a few hours, then a chemistry recitation, one that wasn't on the original schedule but it's here to stay now, despite my futile efforts to succeed without it.

Everything is tiring. Every day I consider skipping a class, I'm reminded of how much it costs. Sometimes I skip it anyway, because there's a weariness in my bones, radiating into my chest cavity, stiffening my jaw as it atrophies my muscles. I'm not sure what it is, but it ties me to the bed just as surely as it dampens my thoughts, my feelings, my relationships.

Everything is mad. Life is mad.

But I'm alive. The thought pulls me from my apathy. I pick up my phone and text my friend, Talk later today? I hesitate, and then I make an appointment. Life is mad. But if I have anything to say about it, I'll survive it.