I miss home. Ever since a few months, home has been defined as the haven where I can fall gracefully. Where I can bring melancholic truth up to an art form, instead of ignoring it and ignoring it until it bubbles up--which I then have to suppress as best I can.

I'm being good. I'm stable, taking three little pills precisely every day. No playing around with the dosage so that I'd be the equivalent of a crackhead one week, and depressed the next. Which was, frankly, fun to do and entertaining and a way to lessen the mundane. Nope, not this summer. I have too much college-geared stuff to do. It is essential that I am consumed by the mundane.

sigh But in other news, I am getting very annoyed and flustered at the fact that every scale I get on has a different number to tell me. I've known my home analog scale was wrong, but here at my grandmother's house is another, more modern analog scale. That says I've about reached my goal weight. But according to the last one I've got on, which I've kept in my mind as showing my real weight, I'm seven pounds heavier! It was digital, but it was months ago. This is damn confusing...

I guess it's not like it really matters. There was never a goal, really. I mean, I suppose I expected to work on maintaining. But what can I say? I'm addicted to extremes.