by Sean Kelly

Created on: June 25, 2009

When the heavy double metal doors slammed behind me, I knew I was in trouble. Do not ask me how. I just knew.

Everyone experiences this phenomenon from time to time. No particular reason, you just know something bad is going to happen. It sucks. I left my pills at home, too. I am in major trouble now. It is a feeling that cannot be completely explained, or understood. Unless you have experienced yourself, you will never know. At this rate, I am going to look like a prostitute in church on a Sunday morning. Hands are clammy. My neck is tightening up. Breathing is getting more and more difficult.

I have walked only seventy-five feet. I wish I were home. Safe. Away from, this. I blame my parents. All of their unnecessary pressure, and the endless dribble they call talking. I think about how nice it would be to swallow a Prozac. My mouth produces saliva when I envision Prozac. Too bad I am not one of Pavlov's dogs I would have my reward.

I am still sweating horribly. My nine-hour deodorant is apparently on its tenth hour. My vision is finally adjusting to the absolute darkness outside. The only light coloring my way comes for the street lamps. They are the tall ones; people would rupture their rotator cuff trying to throw objects at the exposed glass casing. Cost the university millions of dollars. The light sucks. I want a Prozac.

Muggings have been happening at an alarming rate. The newspaper said that. I have ventured out into the unknown for about a mile before the first street lamp turns off. It apparently just quit working. In addition, as soon as I was standing directly underneath it. Sweat is running down the middle of my back, trying desperately to escape. I need my Prozac.

I would already be home if I had a vehicle of some kind. Nevertheless, I am one of those non-conformist kinds of person. I did not get my first job until yesterday. I have missed seven years of potential employment. At least I had my Prozac yesterday. I cannot believe I forgot it at home. I was so exhausted after work though, I thought for a minute there on my walk home that I might collapse. I do not like working. I wish my parents would give me a car like the one they did for my three older siblings. Whom am I kidding; I have not even taken drivers training yet. I have always felt like some rotten disgusting piece of trash just shoved aside as if I did not exist. Ever since my mother divorced my father, I have hated them. The new "dad" is a dolt. Well into his forties and

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