Properly, 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.
I frown for a little while at what's written in my journal and try to sleep.