Ho-Hum

At this particular moment in time, I feel exhausted.

My uterus has been stuck in a perpetual ache for the last seven days. My right flip-flop, previously purchased for the rare price of $2 at a local Target, has worn through in a patch at the heel, subjecting my tender skin to the harsh realities of New York pavement- glass, rubble, refuse. My plans to attend Shakespeare in the Park tonight have been flouted by the idiosyncrasies of the virtual ticketing process. And perhaps most tiresome of all is the absence of my most favorite person.

The sky has been particularly beautiful today- a sort of creamy landscape above the building tops, accented by wispy clouds and bright sunshine. There is nothing actually wrong in the world today, and there is even quite a bit right with it, but I feel wistful despite myself. I feel like curling up and sleeping for a few days, which is so unlike me. I crave comfort- a delicious bath, a rich chocolate delicacy, a gentle touch to the center of my back.

The prospect of socializing sounds positively dreadful. So does the prospect of traveling across and up town to my bed. My bed which is covered in the various leftovers and paraphernalia from the last few months of sleeping away from home- stopping by only for deposits and withdrawals from my wardrobe or bookshelf. I am as yet unwilling to put the things away, for though they constantly irritate me with their disorder, I loathe the idea of occupying a bed solo, with only the help of two teddy bears.

Perhaps I ought to just buy a beer or two, bring 'em home, and watch a few movies. Maybe I’ll finish Doctor Who.