there is this man blowing leaves outside my window and I am seriously fighting the urge to throw books out of my window at him because I am irritable and annoyed and impulsive and angry and I can’t handle things.

How am I supposed to eat when my body gives me no incentives; in fact, all it gives me are resaons not to eat.

I eat healthy and my skin gets acne worse than ever.
I eat healthy and my body kicks into hormonal-chaos.
I eat healthy and the neurotransmitters in my brain decided to release and withdraw whenever they damn-well please.

I just can’t do it today. I surrender. Why can’t my body give me some sort of hope?

Mood is rising, rising, rising; risen. 
In the last hour and a half I have written an essay on existential death-anxiety (for my own pleasure; I don’t ever get formal education this relevant) and made a necklace. Normally I could perhaps conjure up the effort to do one of these things in an entire day. I wonder what else I can do, do, do.
My actual class-work?
Nah.
I believe in self-directed studies. 
Hardy-harr.

I also feel like punching a wall.

Rage: boiling over from somewhere, but I don’t know where. Now I know the slightest thing will set me off … waiting.
Nothing has caused this; what could I possibly be angry about? Just another mental hiccup. Hiccup.