Sat in the car in an underground car park, I prop my feet up on the headrest of the passenger seat. I don’t know why I’ve come out, to be honest. I suppose getting dressed and making an effort to leave my bedroom is the first step to making myself go into school tomorrow. 

See, if I was anyone else - anyone sane - I wouldn’t be bothering to analyse this. But as it is, I live my life in a constant stream of self-analysis. Ironic that I’m even doing it now, in an attempt to pin down whatever it is that makes up my personality. Interesting that as somewhat of a nihilist with an acceptance that there is no meaning to the world, I still look for meaning to everything I do. I’m an exercise in character traits. I think it’s all the literature interpretation. 

If I wasn’t quite so over-analytical, this would be exactly what it is: a teenage girl, off sick from school, sitting in the car waiting for her parents to return with the shopping. In fact, it wouldn’t be anything at all. 

I don’t know why I do it. I have to pin down everything into lists of facts and things that have a degree of uncertainty. I have to attempt to establish some sort of causality - because lord forbid that I never meant anything. 

I suppose it could be that I’m looking for certainty because my own mind is a mess. It’s also probably that I’m self absorbed. There’s a point when all the analysis just becomes stupid details about things that don’t matter. 

They’ve returned now. I have a banana. 

I’m not even going to bother to analyse that.