After three days of
rain, everything seems so
washed out and
grey, as if the rain is slowly
removing the
color from
everything.
I was awake until four this morning due to lack of painkillers for a body slowly rejecting the stiches put in it a week ago. Slept through my alarm and woke to a very dark late morning. In the shower I try to play it safe but still wince as the soap and shampoo residue somehow finds a way to seep into my incisions. I swear, these fuckers haven't healed at all. I could stick a goddamn chopstick straight into my abdomen and tickle my liver if I wanted to. Actually, if I could find a way to sterilize a chopstick I might actually try that...
The rest of the day was eaten up by a doctor's visit (I got a bag of shiny new bandages and other supplies. Alas, no painkillers) and the completion of a paper on the Martyrdom of Shakespeare's Flastaff. Dinner was Cheerios and whats left of the ginger beer.
It's still raining. Im not even looking out the window; you can tell by the sound of the cars as they pass by. I suppose I should be greatful: if this were snow we'd be buried by now. Still, snow would mean snowball fights, lewd snowmen, the feel of a snowflake landing in your ear. Rain just brings the smell of wet wool and floods the walk outside my window—everyone walking with their head down.
Tonight there are people banging around outside my door. God knows whats going on but they seem to be having a good time. Perhaps they're stir-crazy from the weather. Tonight I pray for reasuring scabs and sunshine.