Washing my sheets and reading Lolita, my feet too cold to function, wondering if I should colour my hair back to its natural dark brown, or stick to the dark red I am beginning to be known for.
The roof of my mouth reacts like a wounded animal. Been sucking on Vicks Vapour Drops all day long, those butter menthol ones. They only make me feel worse. Seeing as my appetite has packed it’s normally cake-shaped suitcase and fucked off, the only thing I can manage is Happy Tea and cough drops. Any other time I’d be unusually happy about this. Right now I just kind of hate my body, not for how it looks, but how susceptible it is to illness and ailments. Also how one of my knees is slightly different to the other one. Which means I have a favourite leg. Which really shouldn’t even come into the equation of how I feel about myself.
Lookin’ good, Lefty.
Re-issued penguin books for $13. I feel a new addiction coming on. I got Lolita for $4.07. Sales and gift cards. P.S I don’t care what people say about you, Borders. I love you.
I imagine us with skinned knees in my parents old house, staring at my cats grave with half smiles. Just because we grew up once, completely apart from each other. But for some reason, we met halfway. And maybe all this shit we did during those, what, 13 odd years, made it so we would be standing across the street from each other, waiting for all the cars to stop or slow, so one of us can cross.
Sleeping sick makes dreams with blurred edges, like a dozen half erased frames, linked together loosely with breaking chains. So all I remember when I wake is a feeling of unease and general nausea. That, and your face, pausing above an open book, with a look of painful disinterest in my naked knees and flawed complexion.