I found myself on a bench, freezing. I was clutching a book, the pages were writhing in pain under my wind-chapped and dry fingers, but I couldn't bring myself to let them breathe. I could feel the life draining from my body, but I couldn't get up; life had beaten me. The snowflakes gently made their descent onto my body, flooding my face with an icy numbness; my eyes fluttered. I was out.
I had the dream again; I was freezing to death on a bench and didn't seem to care. Every time I awoke from that dream, an overwhelming feeling of dread encompassed my whole being; a knot grew in the pit of my chest, it had to be the size of a bowling ball, crashing into my chest, emptying my heart and lungs from their respective cavities, and leaving a shell. I never felt happy on days that I had that dream. Then I remembered what day it was...
I stood in the shower, agonizing how I should tell my parents I never actually registered for college. I really didn't have that awesome part-time job that would "get my career going" or the amazing boyfriend that they hadn't met yet because it wasn't the right time. I really didn't have anything. I took my time. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. I read the instructions on the conditioner, left it in for at least five minutes so that my hair would at least be silky smooth when I broke my dad's heart. I took the time to exfoliate every inch of my body, shaved both legs with a liberal amount of shaving cream, and finally stepped out of the shower. Every second of getting ready was exaggerrated. I curled, powdered, glossed, and blotted my face and hair, tried on three different outfits, and brushed my teeth to a sparkling gleam before I made my way to the living room. There they sat, waiting to tell me how proud they were.
