Stream of Consciousness

I'm sitting here on the third floor of the library trying not to cry.
It's Friday afternoon and classes are officially done for the summer.
To celebrate, most of my school is outside in the central part of campus, having fun at Spring Fling.
I'm pretty sure I'm only one of maybe ten other students who chose studying over hanging out with friends on the first nice day of the season.
Except I don't really want to be here, alone on the quiet floor while my mind suffocates my entire being.
I'm past the point of being angry at myself.
Now I just roll my eyes and tell myself, "You are a dumb shit, Erika."
I'm so fed up with my work ethic lately.
I hate how I never do my homework on time anymore.
I hate how I find it normal to have to turn papers and projects in late.
I hate how I know my GPA is dropping and all I do is shrug my shoulders.
This was never me.
And now my thoughts are tunneling in on the idea that this is how college will be for me from here on out.
I see myself developing a panic disorder.
My heart now has an irregular beat that tumbles and stutters every time I look to my homework and come up with blank thoughts.
I can't do this anymore.
Class is over. I should be done. I should be spending these final days with the friends I won't see until next year.
My life is slipping out of my grasp and I'm not doing anything about it.
I don't care about anything anymore.
I need to see a counselor.
I have less than a week left with the first boy I've ever loved and I want to puke every time I think about having to leave him.
I need a hug.
I want to be left alone.
I don't want to be a burden.
I want to fade into the worn-out carpet of the least-known building so others will forget about me so that I can forget about myself.
Two girls I'm partially friends with just ran into the library to give me ice cream; I'm crying harder now, terrified and amazed that it's the people you'd never expect that care the most.
It scares me the way I'm treating a public blog like a diary.
I want to sleep for the next seven days.
I want to be home.
I don't want to leave.
This post doesn't fix anything.
I still have hours and hours of work to do.
I knew I shouldn't have put on mascara today.