Mary Versus the Trumpeting Legions of Apathy

I'm listening to eels, classic sad haunting stuff. I'm reading poetry, self-loathing stuff. I'm hearing that literature serves a psychological purpose. People can solve tension in their lives through var carious living. The Illiad ends when Achilles realizes that there is pain greater than his pain, in Priam and my teacher says "this is literature. this is what it's supposed to do. we realize that actually, it's not just us who feel this way." I read this way. Do I feel this way?

The ice cream cake. From the brand-name store. The basket of peaches for breakfast. The envelope. The envelope. The envelope. The envelope. A roomful of navy and leaf-green balloons. At 9:15 in the evening, the shout unexpected. The crowd full of strangers celebrating me. I am twenty-three.

So now I'm feeling: a: maybe I'm not smart enough to compete in this game b: maybe I'm not disciplined enough to compete in this game c: maybe I'm no creative enough to compete in this game. But then I remember: a-z: I freakin' rock.

I have the new computer. I have the new apartment. I have the new iPod. I have the new shoes, the new backpack, the new haircut. Now what do I do? Please let school start soon.