This morning I woke up as bitter as my black coffee. I’m sitting in a $2000 math class that I don’t need, next to a girl who has no idea how personal space works. I haven’t gotten a text back, and my roommate is an inconsiderate child who knows how to take advantage of anxious bones. Priorities tend to shine most when I’m upset.
I do believe in karma and this morning I was less polite than usual. If she wants to be on the phone with the lights on at 3 in the morning when I have class at 8, you can bet your ass I’m going to turn the lights back on at 6 to straighten my hair. I’m going to play soft jazz and hum along to it. I’m going to let my alarm ring for minutes, just because. I’m going to drop things and mumble to myself because I have been silent for six months while her boots spiked my back, and I’m finally breaking.
I may be bitter because the cold, thin air here actually makes it near impossible to breathe. It’s not even 7, and I’m bracing sub-zero temperatures to get to a dining hall for mediocre eggs. I may be bitter because the knots in my back are so dense that they ache to the touch and my posture is suffering, and anyone that knows me knows that posture is appearance, and appearance is everything.
This bitterness will fester, and my therapist will tell me to talk it out, but I can’t, because I don’t talk, I write. So I write this. Everyone who reads this will say, “Calm down, Emma,” and I slap them in their rosy cheeks because they do not understand how miserable I can get by letting every single small thread of irritation just sit in my skin like bruises that never heal.