I have, admittedly, been in a Plathian place this semester. Which isn't as bad as it sounds (with the exception of February, which was Plathian in every negative sense). What I'm talking about is just a dry, slightly ironic, method of seeing things.
This disinterested refuge became impossible to find yesterday after taking two ill-advised excedrin on an empty stomach. I've been off caffeine for months (again), and those two little white bombs hit a stomach filled only with a slice of rye toast and very high hopes. Their mushroom cloud was an all-consuming nervousness that had morphed into a suffocating anxiety by mid-afternoon. My only combat to this is extreme deliberateness. I looked over the homework I did yesterday afternoon this morning. My writing is small and neat and very, very careful. My answers are equally careful, and completely unimaginative.
I have a history of poor medicinal decisions, mostly involving too many pills and too few slices of toast. My last summer in Rexburg, for example, when I took too many ibuprofen on an equally empty stomach, and threw up popsicles for the rest of the day. Night fell and I sent James to see X-Men (I don't remember which one), and nearly passed out moving from my bathroom to my bed. The only thing I could foggily remember from first aid training was elevated feet, so when James came home he found me asleep with my feet up on every pillow we had. Another time I took my brother's anti-nausea medicine after I caught his flu. I threw it up, or so I thought, so I took another. Next thing I know, I'm sprawled in front of my bedroom window in a cold sweat with a fat lip from somehow sprinting into it. Then there was the brisk walk home from the subway entrance to hastily refund some vitamins.
In short, I need to eat more at breakfast.