Complaining

As I walk home from school, I feel my legs want to give out from under me, my lungs struggle to gather the right amount of air for the pace I'm walking at, and my head start to feel light. My joints have always hurt, but not as bad as they do now. I still remember the P.E. lesson I had when I realise it got worse. Despite the ache, I refuse to use my cane at school, or just in general. I'd rather limp than have to face questions of if I'm exaggerating my little owy booboo. 

Once I've snapped out of my thoughts, I've reached my apartment building. I stop to look at the magpies in the tree growing over and shading the sit place that has stood there since the 60s. I click my tongue rapidly at them since I like the way they react to it. They turn their heads and try to find the source of the sound.

At home I'm surrounded by clowns of porcelain and books of various ages and sizes, some resting atop each other on the second shelf above my desk, others on the big stack of celebrity gossip magazines. An old copy of Apostle 1 lies under harsh lights from previous inspections of it. I have looked at it hundreds of times, but I still find myself drawn to looking through its yellow pages. Unfinished projects and paintings tempt me to finish them, but I won't. My hands feel sweaty. No matter what I do, the warmth of early summer nags at me.

More often than not, I have a Dr Pepper in my possession. It's not becoming a problem since it's already been a problem for awhile. It's silly to say that I'm addicted to Dr Pepper, but also true. I have gotten withdrawals from not having Dr Pepper, and I've lashed out at people because of that. I would stop, but I'm fine with consuming enough sugar every week to have me dead by age 20.