, I was up until 4 a.m.
or later, so a soft blue light was starting to infect the sleeping porch
when I finally drifted off.
I woke up later that morning, and again in the afternoon, and finally got myself out of bed at 4 p.m.
thinking, this is ridiculous, this is abnormal
. This is how I behave on the weekends. This is how I behave too much of the week.
The only thing in my inbox is a letter from a friend who, for six years, has been a surrogate big sister to me, though I've never met her face-to-face. The letter is all about my boy trouble
and I spend two hours writing about back getting over him, getting over boys in general, getting my shit together for the summer
, which will probably be more important to me.
It's time for dinner
; I go downstairs in my bathrobe and grab a handful of barbecue-flavored
potato chips, and then get in the shower for too long
, thinking about my perilous doom
. I can't get over
him, and I can't get over what I dreamed last week: something's about to break
, and saying so must make me the world's biggest drama queen, but it will probably be the best thing for me
I walk over to coffeeshop which is strict and utter hipster territory, and in my fishnets
and junk jewelry
get a lot of suspicious looks from the regulars. I try to absorb myself with my journal
and my reading for school
, and instead pick up something about photojournalism
in Pulitzer's era. I find out where the word "paparazzi
" comes from, make a few self-deprecating remarks in my notebook, and take off. The sun is gone
at this point, but I can still see to walk home. I wonder what happened to my bike
I have some Macaroni and Cheese
at home, and two cups of hot chocolate
(one is Swiss Miss
, the other from scratch
), and end up talking to two of my housemates about cute boys and cartoons
. I try to write a poem about it, to no avail.
I go upstairs and check my mail again
. It's my sister again, telling me, to wit, "four hundred and sixty-seven hot baths and thirty bars
of chocolate will make the hurt less hurty
," and I spend a couple of hours thinking of ways to tell her things are really better than I say
, really, I'm too good at evoking your pity, and I'm utterly detached
from everything I said before. There's probably a three-month
delay for me from heartbreak to proper articulation.
for a little while at what's written in my journal
and try to sleep.