I feel drugged. Really, on a cloud, different–than–drunk, numb–to–the–world, drugged. And, as someone who (believe it or not) hasn't ever touched a drug beyond the Benadryl and Epinephrin required by a severe allergy to peanuts, I have to say — it's quite a fascinating state of being.
This past week seems like a blur. I've been living from class to class, scrambling to get work done (or figuring out how to postpone it) and achieving the bare minimum to get by. I half–heartedly do everything — class, Street (sorry!), friendships, even my social life has seen a definite turn to the “I'd rather stay in bed than walk a block and a half to Smoke's” blues. I've recently been having a lot of trouble remembering anything I did the day before. I nap a lot. And doze in class. And generally have a hard time paying attention to anyone speaking ever at all.
Why? I can't say. I'm getting a relatively decent, if sporadic, amount of sleep. I'm certainly not depressed, or really at all unhappy. I suppose maybe it's early–onset senioritis, or just a severe case of apathy and laziness or the fact that I'm in denial about summer weather really being all behind us.
Regardless, it seems that Thanksgiving break is simultaneously so soon and so far away. I'm desperate to get home to the warm and uncomplicated haven that is the house where I grew up, but I also know that a return to school means that it'll quickly be the end of the semester. Which means that, with penalty of GPA and academic dignity, I'm actually going to have to wake up from this zombie stupor I currently find myself unable to escape. And frankly, I'm currently very cozy.
Today brings some relief, however, because if there's anything that'll actually sober me up, it's that semesterly tradition of hate and scandal we like to call Shoutouts. So put on your mean face and send 'em in — shoutouts@34st.com. We'll be waiting with open arms.
'til next week,
