Francisco shivering in my head

My dad wakes me up at twenty to eleven this morning to play musical chairs with the broken cars. The drive to my mom's school is maybe three minutes long, and my eyes are still closed. He asks me if I'm feeling okay. I try to wrench my eyes open. I feel helpless and lazy and stupid, anxious and despairing of ever doing anything with my life or time, of ever having the energy to even attempt it; ashamed and inadequate. (And I wonder if the bitter cold had anything to do with his being sick at heart, or if they were simply two things that we're weighing on his spirit and made him glad to see a friend.) But it's probably just PMS, and it's probably all true.

"Just, you know, tired."

Eyes still not open because he'd knocked on my door at one in the morning and with wonder in his voice asked what I was doing on the computer at that hour. I smiled and answered that I was at that moment talking with Erika, but it wouldn't have taken much for that semi-hysterical giggle to vibrate its way out of my diaphragm, because I wasn't planning on getting into bed until four or five and then berating myself for it in the afternoon. It was closer to six by the time I wrenched myself away from the computer, and the berating has begun. There should be more thinking with the frontal lobe in my life. I'm not laying any kind of odds on it.