Today I realized that I don't like my family all together. Note that that's different from not liking them altogether. No, I can deal with any of them fine on a one-on-one basis. But I'm so unlike from the rest of my family that having all four of us in the same room — me times three, numerically — only accentuates the difference. They have this weird, shared base of knowledge that sounds like googleglork to me. The closest I can even approximate it is that they've all been watching some long-running show that I've never heard of, and I always meet with them right after the season finale.
It sucks, but it's true.
I'm ready to go home, but I'm terrified that the doctor will tell me tomorrow that I have to stay longer. I'm better, but not better. If anything, my illness just migrated to new parts of my body. I cough now. My chest hurts when I breath. Besides, living in Hollister sinks me into a state I call "incidentally suicidal." I wouldn't kill myself, but I get so bored here that those kind of thoughts start creeping in as a means of breaking up the monotony. Like, "I could drown myself in paint bucket and that would take up a good twenty-five minutes," depending on how I went about it.
I just pulled an ant off my shoulder.