I'm shaking... cold, and nauseous. Getting worse by the minute. I want to go home... but I can't, I promised Rick a drive home at 3:30. I want to cry. Getting worse by the minute. Sorting through old files on my laptop. Found a poem from Adam's Xmas card to me last year. Found the 2,000-word essay I wrote him. Found the short story about the time I went to his house at one a.m., after fighting with Joey, and he made me hot chocolate and fed me barbeque chips, and let me sleep in his arms, despite protests from his parents. Found so many of my poems and diary entries from happier times, when we were together. Getting worse by the minute, worse with each character I type. The shaking's making the juice in the drink box on my desk dance. I want to go home. I want to go back in time to a home I used to feel home in, one I didn't have to even invite you into for you to be there, taking care of me.

I ate... I shouldn't have. It's torturing my stomach, taunting that I might soon see those grapes again.

You eat.... You gorge at your buffet. Go ahead. I've had what I deserve.... I'll be in the corner, waiting for my stomach to settle. All I ask, though I long for more, is that please, break from the table every once in awhile, bring a plate, and keep me company?

I hate this feeling. But I hate more the fact that, so unlike every other crappy feeling I've ever felt, I don't have the power to shake this one.