I guess you could say that I once was an introvert. Never said anything out of place, never fighting back. I could sit cozy between the shelves of the library for hours, reading until my neck and eyes began to scream "Stop it!" I took whatever life threw at me at whatever point in time. Deep down, I was fiery, stubborn, overly independent. Maybe even a little rebellious to some? But I tried my hardest not to show it. Have I just stopped trying by now?
These achey pains are just so stubborn. I could consume a million cups of tea and yet they still will remain. My physical exhaustion, that feeling that it wouldn't matter how many days I could sleep and I would still feel icky, lingers constantly. BAH.
I would still so much rather be snuggled in between the pages of Shakespeare and Jane Austen than to have my nose crammed between the pages of an encyclopedia. I hate thesis papers. I hate 12 degree weather and clouds without an ounce of rain (maybe snow?). I hate whatever this is that is fighting inside of me.