franglass
In the space of an hour, I was shown my room in the dormitory, we looked around the campus, and my parents drove away. Surprise: you are going to spend seventh grade at fundamentalist Christian boarding school. We're getting a divorce. See you at Thanksgiving.
And don't let these crazy bastards baptize you. We already did that.
I was raised to awake every morning and make my bed. Then my job was to be productive, however I could. "Idle hands are the devil's workshop," was an adage I frequently heard and came to see proved many times. So it's hard to adjust to being sick. What does a person who wants, above all else, to be productive do when she wakes up and can't peel her head off of the pillow? How does she make sense of her day when being productive, if she's lucky, is making lunch, or if she's really productive, writing this brief paragraph.
Existence is a complex word. It makes me think about what I'm doing here on the planet, what I'm made of. It's a philosophical word. What people belong to, the existence of man on the planet...