i sit here, in my house. i consider the circumstances of my life. my school, my books, my friends, my family, my personality. who i am. it rises like bile in my throat and i hate it. my future that is nailed into place before me that i cannot escape. mediocre, dismal, pudgy. and i feel so trapped, that this will be the sum total of my life: always trying, always wanting (in both senses of the word), holding on to the little things, trying to find happiness, trying to find belonging, trying to understand, and never quite succeeding. i will do nothing wonderful, nothing exciting, and then i will die. that is all.