The world is falling. My brain is spinning faster than the earth. My life is slipping further out of reach. My lungs have refused to fill with air. Even my stomach rejects the food I fill it with.
And I am out of fight.
So instead:
I spend a whole morning cumming over and over. My head slung over the edge of the mattress, the room upside down, as I scream and scream and scream.
I sleep in till three in the afternoon.
I read trashy novels about men in riding boots.
I wear the same sweat pants I wore yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.
I forgo underwear. I shun bras.
I lie on my back for hours staring at the bug with the huge pincers crawl over the light fixture.
I say simple words in french over and over so it sounds like I speak it fluently.
I listen to Ricky Martin.
I brush my hair one hundred times.
And at midnight I take a piping hot shower and crawl under the covers clothes-less to enjoy tart, sweet, bursting strawberries covered in a soft down of mold. The same way everything else is covered in a soft veil of frost and depression.