on smells, and the ways my body is changing.

There is a growth on my tongue. It's as if my tongue is swelling to conquer my chest. I feel it pressing the back of my teeth. When I read email, I take breaks to stretch and massage my jaw for the pain. I could choke. There is a chance that my tongue is morphing into another person. A little villain. A not-so-little-as-yesterday Lex Luther.

My hands are bony. They're not growing. They're shrinking, I feel. My wrists were always small, my hands freakish and rubbery in comparison. But now, they're shrinking. It's fitting, I think. Large tongue, tiny hands. My forehead is secreting the strangest goo. Back to my tongue.

My tongue doesn't taste odd. It's not even a new texture. It's just progressively - daily - occupying more space in my mouth. I don't know why. I wasn't bitten. Was I bitten? No. I wasn't bitten. I didn't bite it. I didn't eat anything strange. I may have swallowed more than I should have. I may have chewed up and swallowed a buncha stuff I should have spit out. I probably shouldn't have even eaten it, now that I think about it, but since I did, I should have just spit it out. Now, I'm paying for it. My tongue is rejecting it. Rejecting me. I may have to amputate. Should have thought of that sooner.

I get phone calls (sometimes), and I feel myself sweating. I pace. I walk a mile in a 10 minute phone call. I start to hyperventilate. I can smell copper. I taste pennies. My cheeks feel red. Like Jaundice. No. Jaundice is yellow. What's red? Fire. My cheeks feel red. Like Fire. My eyelids are heavy, but won't shut.

It's just within reach. This thing. This goal. It's so close that I can see how far I need to go. Before, I couldn't even see it. It was so far away, that I thought I was closer than i was. Now, I'm close enough to see just far I have to go. I hear smart people say that the more they learn, the more they realize they don't know. That's dumb. The more I learn, the more I realize I like learning, and hope I never run out. I digress.

My feet are covered in blisters, and I walk a fraction of what I used to. I miss her. I forgave her. Then she hurt me again. I asked her to stop, and she accused me of hurting her on purpose. I just wanted it to stop. My feet are sweaty. They're not swollen, just sweaty. I wish all this would stop. I wish there were some reason. Some excuse for the excess in failure. I wish I could just quit. I wish I had no ambition. No drive. I would be a much happier person. I wish I expected less. Delivered more. Was more stable. More predictable. More dependable. I wish I wasn't so selfish. I was once very selfless. I am not anymore. I don't think so. I'm a freakish, big-tongued, sweaty-footed, hyperventilating, overweight, cross-eyed, vagabond.

I didn't want this. I'm afraid. I don't laugh as often as I want. I don't cry as often as I probably should. My eyes water, but there are no tears. Not real tears. I'm tired. I'm too young to be this tired. I'm too old to be this scared. What the hell is that smell?