Nausea

Today, I am numb. I am numb, dumb, and a bum.

The alarm goes off at 9:30. That's 9.5 hours of sleep, full of too many dreams, that I did not want to dream. With half the covers off the bed, and my right leg dangling over the edge into the cold room, I want breakfast. The fog seems to drift from outside my closed window into the space between my ears and in front of my eyes. The noise from the hall seeps under my door, a vacuum just outside the piece of material that all too often disconnects me from the world. It reeks of crisp new day, and I desperately want to go back to sleep.

Sluggishly, I sit up and reach for my computer to check my email. A message about a job that I don't even want in the first place, something about a missing cat, and a strategically written note of delayed wishful thinking. Fuck off world, I'm tired of your games. I'm hungry. I'm hungry for feeling and knowledge, intuition and connectivity. But here I lay, starving; so I grab some candy.

To the showers! Like Hitler himself sentences my naked body to the sickeningly cold and smelly tiled room where my bar of soap dries out my skin and my cold, wet hair gives me shivers. They sing and laugh and piss me off in there.

There is a choice between Bob Marley and Melissa Ferrick. I choose Ferrick and with it comes nausea. All the women who had been in that shirt before me. Where that shirt has been and who and what it represents sickens me. All the fucking and fighting, manipulation and unsterile arguments lead me to my window. Jump? No, there's no time for that. Besides, it's noon and I need a cigarette.