saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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In 24 hours.
At 5:45 am, I am in bed, eyes open. I would like to put in a request that a person should be able to switch off Think Mode and just sleep, but I don't know who to ask.
I close my eyes at 6 am.
When I wake and open them again at 7:15, the tears that roll out from under my lids are warm.
It continues like that for four more hours.
By the time I get to work, my face is so swollen, it feels like my eyes are going to pop. It's really interesting when your contact lenses get clouded enough that it's almost like you aren't wearing them at all.
At 1:30 pm, I realize that I had forgotten my school backpack. At 1:31 pm, I realize that I don't give a shit.
I am home by 5:30, having committed, heart and soul, to not attend class that night. And by god, I follow through with that decision, despite my predisposition to ignoring what I'm committed to.
Thank all that is holy for mothers.
I crawl into bed at 5:45 pm, fully clothed, asking mum to wake me when Taylor requires sustenance.
At 6:30, I find myself semi-conscious and shaking, being covered with a blanket by mum. I mutter something, old-man style, and she tells me to hush and go back to sleep.
7:45 pm, I am aware of a gentle kiss on my cheek from my daughter, and then she sneaks noisily out of my room, slamming my door shut and "whispering" in a voice loud enough to wake the dead, "SHE'S STILL SLEEPING. SHOULD I STILL BE QUIET?" I pull my pillow over my head, trying to will myself to get up. Instead, I drift off again. My eyes are pounding. My stomach feels like there is a gang of aliens inside, tagging my stomach lining with knives. I tell them to shut the fuck up already, or I'll be on them like stink on shit.
The aliens laugh when the idea of stinky shit makes my stomach turn even more.
I finally force myself fully awake at 10 pm. I get undressed and pull on a t-shirt, then go downstairs where I find and devour my first food of the day: a slice of cold pizza from the fridge.
Then I go back to bed.
12:45 am: I lose the pizza to the Porcelain God, and tell him to remember me to Buddha.
At 1:23, I wander into the kitchen and drink three glasses of water, pushing Lulu away from me with one foot. She acts like she's been neglected for years. I guess I can relate.
The water sits in my stomach, sloshing and unusually sharp.
By 3:45, I have kept the water safely inside of me, and the Porcelain God sulks. I give him the finger.
5:45: I roll over in bed and, out of habit, check my cell phone for messages. The LCD shows only the time. In the mirror next to my bed, my face in the glow of the phone looks like ash.
But my brain feels a little more numb.
So that's fun.
11:37 a.m. - 2003-03-06
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