I'm homeless, my girlfriend wants a milkshake, and life is hard.

I'm trying to figure out what the hell it is I'm doing here, wearing my girlfriend's jazz shoes that are a size-and-a-half too small, a Kimchi Blue floral button-up dress from a casual friend who is going be be far more successful than I can ever hope to be - I couldn't even afford to load the Wellsely website - my short hair pieced and sleepy and fucked up because I spent ten minutes after a shower with organic shampoo and conditioner trying to make it look like I've been held captive in a hostel for three weeks (it's more genuine that way), netbook drowning in PETA stickers (Club Soda, Not Seals!), mismatched headphones, tall iced-sugar-free-vanilla-soy latte, this expression like I'm contemplating all of the world's hardships and balancing my checkbook all at once.

I want to be seen, and that - quite frankly - scares the shit out of me. I worry that I am my mother and my father and both of their subtypes of narcissist personality disorders put together behind these favours and volunteering and helping and cleaning and cooking and praising others and putting them first.

I don't smoke because I'm addicted or drink coffee because I need it or take vitamins because I know they're good for me or talk about current events because they're interesting. I do it for attention or praise or acknowledgement or respect or simple recognition.

Cycles of pedophilia of poor financial prowess of red hair and freckles of undiagnosed ADHD of narcissistic personality disorder. Maybe realizing it means I don't have it. Or maybe it means I pay too much attention to myself and assume that my actions have more meaning than they actually do.

Is there a doctor in the house?