Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

But don’t repeat the shampoo, move on to the conditioner.

Apply shaving cream. Not too much.

Damn. No razors. I can never remember.

Rinse off unnecessary shaving cream.

Wash face, then body.

The water’s cold now. I’m not sure if the hot water heater just sucks or I’ve once again lost track of time. Probably the latter.

Turn water off, dry off before stepping out onto the mat. Twist hair up into towel and put bathrobe on.

See? Easy.

Hair is out of the towel almost immediately. Just a means of sponging it up enough so it’s not dripping. Brush hair and teeth, apply cover-up, eye shadow, and lip gloss. Even through the shower, the eyeliner stayed on. It always does.

Grab random clothes. It doesn’t matter. There’s a dress I stuffed in one of my drawers that’s currently open. It’ll do. It’s wrinkly, but who cares? Slip sandals on. Check the clock.

Time to go.

Just enough time left to not eat breakfast. Perfect. I say as much to my mother as I rush out the door to school. I don’t especially care if I’m on time, but it means I don’t have to eat and it keeps the teachers and my parents off my back. Win/win situation. I live for these.

Crap. I forgot. Again. Check notebook. I pull it out from my bag. They call it a hobo bag, which I think suits me fine. I’m not entirely sure who ‘they’ are, though. Probably the same people who like to classify me, label me, put me in little boxes. I study my list. Check. Check. Check. Shit. My book. Dostoevsky. I left it on my night stand. I knew I would forget, but I thought maybe I wouldn’t, so I didn’t move it to my bag. I can’t turn back now. I’m almost to the school and my mother would be concerned if she knew I was forgetting things again. Of course, I know plenty of people who forget things, my mother included, but apparently it only means something when I’m the one forgetting.

Stop by the school library first. Lucky me they have a copy of Dostoevsky’s short stories. I check it out and think that maybe the student librarian suck-up gives me a strange look, but Dr. Hildebrand told me not to pay attention. She’s right. Half the time I’m imagining things anyway. No point in making a big deal out of nothing. Especially if it is actually nothing.

Stop by my locker. 11 right, 22 left, 8 right again. Damn. Try again. Damn it. Begrudgingly check notebook. Oh. 11-20-8. Reach for pen and write combination on palm of hand. It’s going to be one of those days.

Cross the hall to the window seat. Take book out and start reading. There’s no bookmark since this isn’t my copy and I realize now that I don’t remember anything of what I read last night. So I start at the beginning of “Notes from the Underground.” I’ve started at the beginning of this one a dozen times. Maybe more, but I can’t remember. The others were easier, more clear. This one is complicated. I start making notes in the margin like I usually do before I realize it’s not my copy. Oh well. Damage is done. I switch to pencil anyway. It’s the best I can do.

The warning bell rings and everyone around me rushes. They’re a blur out of the corner of my eye. I wait. No use in rushing now. I can make better time if I wait until the halls clear up. My eyes catch sight of something outside the window. Or someone. A boy. Staring at me. Rather creepily, really. But what do I care? People think I’m creepy. Who am I to say anything? I don’t recognize him, but there are always a few transfer students throughout the year. I blink and he disappears from my view, but it doesn’t matter. The hallway only contains a few stragglers, so I pack up my stuff and get to my first class at the end of the hall. Just a general home room class. Meet here for 20 minutes in the morning for announcements, attendance, and for most students, time to finish homework. I read the whole time and the teacher, whose name I’m not even sure I know, doesn’t say anything because she knows. They all know.

But they don’t understand, and who can blame them?

So I keep to myself and do my homework and don’t cause trouble. It’s the least I can do.

Classes pass by quickly, surprisingly enough. It’s easy for me, really. Take school notebook out. Turn to that section for that class. Write everything the teacher writes on the board. Nod as if you’re paying attention, and actually pay enough attention to know the answer when the teacher asks a question. Besides all that, there’s nothing really to it. Not sure why the other students have such a hard time paying attention and staying quiet. It’s easy, just shut your mouth. Or maybe it’s just easy for me because I’ve had so much practice.

Lunch comes and that’s the hard part. I eat alone, but the teachers have been instructed to watch me. But they’re underpaid as it is so it’s easy to slip things past them. They don’t really care, and I’m glad. I would hate to disappoint them. Since they’re watching, I still have to get lunch. Such a waste of money, and we’re definitely not swimming in it. A waste of food, too. But I do what I have to. I move the food around, cut the mystery meat, even put a few bites in my mouth, and when no one’s looking I spit it into my napkin. No one’s holding their breath for me to actually finish a meal, but as long as it looks like I tried, it’s good enough for them.

People think I don’t eat because I’m anorexic or something. It’s not true. In fact, sometimes I wish I weren’t so skinny. I don’t have a problem drinking things, mostly juice and water, occasionally a protein shake or smoothie, but I can’t eat. No matter how much I try, I can’t, and I don’t know why. Everyone seems to think I do and I’m just not telling. They think that way about everything. But I really don’t know. But I don’t want anyone to worry, so I go through the motions, I make the effort to help ease their conscience.

I’ve just spit out my first bite of food when I feel someone standing behind me. It’s not uncommon and I try not to let on that it bothers me. I’m pretty sure it’s normal to not like people standing behind you, but just in case it’s not, I don’t say anything. The person moves and it turns out it’s the guy from earlier, the transfer student. He’s cuter than I thought, but it doesn’t really matter. I’m not interested in guys. Or girls. Or anyone at all really. I guess if I were interested, it would be guys, or at least this guy. He sits across from me, and I’m pretty sure either no one told him I’m crazy or this is some initiation. Talk to the crazy girl and you’re in. Wonder what he’s supposed to say. Maybe he’s going to act like he likes me, ask me out, all the while planning on standing me up. Doesn’t matter. It’s not going to work.

It never works.

Usually I’m glad.

Sometimes, though, I wish that I could let go long enough, even if it only ends in pain.

Maybe I am crazy.