So there’s this boy, see. He thinks he knows what’s good for him. He stands in the shower and he counts to three before he turns off the water. Counting to two is not right, and four is too much.

It’s too much. My hands hurt and my arms ache, and I’m growing tired of this. I want to do something. I want to say something. I want to never write another sentence that starts with “I want.” I should not write these things. I don’t remember how to write. It was something I used to do, but now I don’t do enough of it.

I’m depressed but I don’t even know I’m depressed anymore. How am I going to get through this. Yes, he can do it. Yes, it’s his job. It should be mine. I feel terrible about it. Why can’t I just sit back and do my own job without coveting more of a say. I can do it better, that’s what goes through my thick head.

Passion or work? What is worse? I can’t do this anymore. I have to do more. I can’t do this anymore. I have to do more.