It hurts. I love it.

I am an adrenaline junkie. I've only just noticed this in the past six months or so. It isn't extreme sports or daring adventures that I crave; it's drama.

To the casual observer, or even close friends and family, the sick love affair I have with adrenaline goes unnoticed. I'm sure I come across as reserved, possibly laid-back, and quite calm, but there is an internal quality that is constantly churning and powering me into determination.

It's all very psychological. I make myself believe that every project I am working on is my first priority, and if a deadline isn't met or a venture drowns under my well-being, social life, or the lives of others, I am utterly disappointed and become rather depressed.

I have no idea what spurred on this addiction of mine. I could have inherited my father's obsession with his profession. I was aware of this over the summer when I found myself restless and depressed after a long semester of writing for the school's newspaper. I no longer had deadline after deadline to meet, and therefore lacked the anxiety pumping through my body due to persistently perfecting something and having it read by thousands of people.

It is all very twisted, and I am beginning to think that it might put me into an early grave. I'll probably drop dead of a heart attack from the perpetual buildup of tension, or the taxing chain-smoking that occurs from such tension.

Perhaps I shouldn't be talking about this, I might jinx myself.


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