I'm One Messed Up Kid

For some reason I’m suddenly convinced that none of this is real. No, I’m not high or drunk, because I’ve never touched any of that stuff. Well, as far as I know. The darkness behind my eyelids seems far more real than these keys that my fingers appear to be tapping away on. I’m somehow convinced that it is not nine fifty-two on this Sunday night, and I’m strangely certain that my nausea is false. I don’t know where I really am, or what’s really happening, but I am almost certain that none of what is happening right now is real. This feeling of being trapped is fake, the way that I almost feel like I’m going to vomit is unreal. It’s not true that I’m pressured beyond belief, and the boy who captivates me certainly does not exist. I don’t know what’s happening to me. Maybe I’m cracking- under the pressure and all. Or maybe none of this is real. When I was little (if I was little), I imagined that none of this was real and that instead we were all the dream of a giant, who was temporarily sleeping. Unfortunately, it didn’t help with my shyness or my fears or my extreme lack of self-confidence, and it doesn’t help those things to think today that this is all faked. Although if it is, I don’t know what or who I am, but it would mean that I wouldn’t necessarily have to turn in my newspaper article on Tuesday. Which sure as hell would be nice.