Russian Worry Doll.

Why do I worry? That can only be answered with mockery. If you only knew what it is I worry about.

I’m a young woman, in my early twenties. I’m beautiful, intelligent, from a well-off family, have always been loved and showered in adoration from men, family, even strangers. Let the pathos begin.

I’m so worried about my future. Normal enough? I’m so worried that I let go of incredible opportunities to study in incredible places to become someone incredibly rich and successful. For I could have done it; but if I had, I would have worried that I could not sit down and study for boredom, for fear of wasting my youth. I worried that my father would spend too much money on me; and so I settled for something cheaper, yet still expensive, and which would not get me anywhere without passion, or so I worry: a degree in pop music. And so I worry.

I have my youth, I have my free time, my beloved part-time job, I have my loves. And so I worry that I spend too much time on them and not enough on my degree, however worrisome it may be. And so I worry that I do not fully appreciate these blessings I have, because they are interfering with my degree, which worries me anyway!

I’m worried that I’m smart, and I’m right, but it all stays in my brain because I can’t be bothered to formulate anything transmissible. And what if I’m not right, and I will never know, and live a lie, a stupid, one-sided, simple-minded lie?

I worry that I will be poor! That I will regret this frivolousness of youth, when I am older and wiser and poorer. I’m disgusted that my father still supports me as I only have ten hours of classes a week. I wonder how I would survive without it; and I worry at how I treat him in spite of that. I’m worried about my mother; I’m worried about my mother’s dog, whom I love excruciatingly. I worry about that love, because how will I ever love another dog like that?

Pets are pretty important to me.

I used to be worried that said dog, that I grew up with, didn’t like or respect me. I’ve grown out of that one since, thank god. She’s a dumb animal and I love her to death.

I’m worried that when she dies, how will my mom get along? She will be so lonely. That dog, I’m telling you, is a gift from the Earth itself. She is the funniest, most precious, most silly and most intelligent dog in the world. How will anyone get along, really, for such an event would probably displace the rotation of the stars (I’m worried about my knowledge of astronomy). I’m worried that I didn’t follow up with my childhood ambitions to become a veterinarian to create some sort of longevity drug for dogs. What is with that lifespan, anyway? We’ve domesticated them to the core; we couldn’t go one step further? Who am I to talk, anyway, when have I done accomplished anything close to selective breeding or biology?

I’m worried about all the clutter in my room, and all my roommates abusing it while I’m gone. I’m worried about my clean sheets having someone else in them. I’m worried that because I forbid it, I will make people want to spite me and do it even more, and I hate washing my sheets. I’m worried that I might smell and no one will tell me, and my boyfriend only likes my smell anyway so he won’t tell me, either. Also, I’m worried that I’m too sensitive and people might be worried to tell me anything worrying.

I’m worried about everything I should be doing that I’m not. I’m worried about the multitude of things yet to experience that I’m either too afraid to, too rational to, or too lazy to. I’m worried about my laziness. I want to experience youth, but I have the mind of a septuagenarian. I wanted to use that word; it’s a shit word. I could have said “old woman” and kept it simple, like my literary hero, George Orwell, would have said. I wish I could write like him.

I’m worried that I worry too much and that I will age. I’m worried about gaining weight, and I’m worried about losing my curves if I lose weight. I’m worried that if I worry, I will jinx everything. I don’t believe in jinx, but I do, because the mind affects the body and the mind, and that is worrisome in itself, because I’m worried I can’t trust my own mind. And yet I’m so stable and sane; I’m worried I’m kind of boring because of that. What’s up with that?

Speaking of boring, I’m worried that someone reading this might tell me: “Oh, you. This is all completely normal, what you’re feeling. Everyone has thoughts like this and most people get out of it. Don’t you worry about a thing, you’re a smart, pretty girl, I know you’ll do well.”

Now THAT is something that worries me. People’s belief in me (and also, being normal). And my father’s disbelief in me. Both sides equally repulse me. I wish people would just… you know, I don’t even know what I wish, because I don’t really like most people anyway, and instead of just disliking them, I’m afraid of them (why?). I want to make my mother proud, and my father eat his words of doubt, and to impress everyone else, and use all my money to make my mother happy. I’m worried I won’t get that money, because back when I was a kid and I played this online pet game, I was only moderately rich on it and never got to that serious luxury level of playing. Well, if at least I get moderately rich, you know. I’m worried that this is all talk, and I want to help her but I’ll end up not, because I’m so lazy and I hate myself for being so lazy, and I hate myself for hating myself for being so lazy because it’s just such a pointless thing to even write down in secret.

I’m worried about my musical tastes stagnating, I’m worried about my hard disk dying and losing my data, I’m worried about something spilling on my computer, I’m worried about my attachment to inanimate objects and clothing, I’m worried about my inanimate objects and my clothing. I’m worried about friends and also not caring about friends. Do I care or do I not? Doesn’t not caring attract people anyway? What if, with me, it doesn’t? What am I even talking about? I’m worried about my egotism and the amount of times I use the word “I” or “me” in conversations and just everything.

I gave an interview once for this online magazine thing where I was interning. And I had to hold myself back nearly every time from replying with a comparison to my own self.

I am not empirical or the base of all humanity!

I’m worried that writing this might not be so therapeutic after all, and who even had this idea? My stupid brain? What if I make it all worse? What if this makes me age faster? What if

And I’m so worried about the baggage retrieval system they’ve got at Heathrow.