Sick: A Story of the Surreal
Today would've been like yesterday, except instead of waking up to the buzzing of a cell phone on vibrate as it makes its clumsy way across the desk, then stretching quietly and rolling over, wishing for one more hour of sleep, I woke up to sudden, blaring Japanese hip-hop and literally fell out of bed trying to oh-god-Make-It-Stop before it woke up my roommates. Devon gave me a thankful look before we both carried on with our usual morning rituals. I counted my used-up GAD pills (Tuesday- Wednesday- Thursday- Friday- Saturday- Sunday- Monday) and took another Tuesday with water. I left the triple soon after him, deciding not to eat that piece of chocolate cake for breakfast after all, and proceeded to be bored in Japanese as usual.
-Tense shift-
What happens today that definitely did not happen yesterday, nor any day previous, is that I come home from class, sit down, and promptly begin to fall asleep over my kanji. Finishing the last lazy strokes, I decide to curl up in bed. Which is exactly where Devon find s me around 11:46. It is lunch time, which I am very glad of, because I feel hungry enough to eat Turner the construction crane in a few bites. However, upon purchasing said lunch, I find that I have no desire to eat it. The world distracts me. I watch my hands grow whiter and whiter in the afternoon sunlight until they almost match my blouse. Druggie Boy walks by, his haunted eyes as usual rimmed in red, but instead of sitting down in some dark corner of the cafeteria with Pretentious Speed Dream Girl as usual, he lumbers up the ramp toward the dorms with his tray of food. I think that maybe Girl is sick, and imagine Boy will spoon-feed her the lunch. For some reason, in my head she is naked. Bill, I think, staring at Bad 80s Bum Hair Boy, would look terrifying with mutton chops. Bum Hair Boy does not have them. I discover that I am 62% geek--but only? How can that be when I've read the entire Encyclopedia of the Undead and think the DoTA song is awesome? It is a miracle I ever finish lunch. I skip feminism. Devon drags a weak and sleepy me out of bed for poetry, where I am to be evaluated. As we walk, I feel more and more nauseous. When asked, I read a stanza of the 6-page poem in a monotone, with all the volume I can muster, which is barely enough to project beyond my desk. I shakily pick up the mocha drink Devon bought for me and sip it. I almost have a panic attack. Then the evaluation begins. They like my poetry this time. What the fuck? The entire piece is criticizing them for criticizing me last time, and they like it? We leave class, and I could sleep standing. I am hungry, and could eat the entire library. I am breaking apart from the belly-button outward, I tell Devon. I am not sick, just . .. weird, I say. There is Scrubs, and then dinner. I get soup, cereal, and a salad, all the while feeling especially invisible to the crowd. We sit with Chelsea and I pick at my salad, eating it with my hands when I eat at all. We are watching ducks out the window and wondering about duck love and duck sex and duck drama, and she is more amused and talkative about these than I have ever seen her be about anything. They leave, and I am alone. I sit, finish my salad and half of my cereal, and take two spoonfuls of soup. I leave, tray mostly full, thinking how disgusted I am with the concept of eating. The sidewalk is quiet. I pass the library and feel my stomach empty enough to eat it again. What is this preoccupation? There is a duck in the Chicken Fountain. It sees me and hides behind a rock. I move, and it swims around to hide behind another rock. No one notices I'm there. I feel like I'm being pulled gently by some invisible force back to the dorm. I am certainly not walking. I do not feel real. I briefly wonder if this is what it's like to be high, but I've never been high and I am certainly not now. Tiny white things fall from the sky, and I think they are snowflakes. One hits me in the cheek. It feels solid. When I look up, they are not snowflakes, but tiny gnats flying around hectic-ly. I realize that when I focus on myself, I feel real and the world doesn't, but when I focus on the world, the reverse is true. The sky and my settings are all grey. I begin to wonder if I am trapped in one of my own poems. That's what color Earphones Guy said my poetry was . . . grey, right? There are two brown puddles beside the train tracks, and I imagine that the despair of our students lives in them. I walk through the hallway, and the girl behind me tells her chick friend that she won't sleep with "that guy" until she's sure they'll still be friends afterwards, because she's "not that big of a whore." Chick friend says she knows, and then begins to go into great detail about all their other friends, happily describing what huge sluts they are. I get into the room, put down my jackets, and pick up my computer. I begin typing on LJ.
I have that take-home test essay to finish, but every time I even pause writing in my LJ, I feel nauseous, heavy, and sleepy. Somethings wrong, but the world's not real, and so nothing can fix it.
-Tense shift-
What happens today that definitely did not happen yesterday, nor any day previous, is that I come home from class, sit down, and promptly begin to fall asleep over my kanji. Finishing the last lazy strokes, I decide to curl up in bed. Which is exactly where Devon find s me around 11:46. It is lunch time, which I am very glad of, because I feel hungry enough to eat Turner the construction crane in a few bites. However, upon purchasing said lunch, I find that I have no desire to eat it. The world distracts me. I watch my hands grow whiter and whiter in the afternoon sunlight until they almost match my blouse. Druggie Boy walks by, his haunted eyes as usual rimmed in red, but instead of sitting down in some dark corner of the cafeteria with Pretentious Speed Dream Girl as usual, he lumbers up the ramp toward the dorms with his tray of food. I think that maybe Girl is sick, and imagine Boy will spoon-feed her the lunch. For some reason, in my head she is naked. Bill, I think, staring at Bad 80s Bum Hair Boy, would look terrifying with mutton chops. Bum Hair Boy does not have them. I discover that I am 62% geek--but only? How can that be when I've read the entire Encyclopedia of the Undead and think the DoTA song is awesome? It is a miracle I ever finish lunch. I skip feminism. Devon drags a weak and sleepy me out of bed for poetry, where I am to be evaluated. As we walk, I feel more and more nauseous. When asked, I read a stanza of the 6-page poem in a monotone, with all the volume I can muster, which is barely enough to project beyond my desk. I shakily pick up the mocha drink Devon bought for me and sip it. I almost have a panic attack. Then the evaluation begins. They like my poetry this time. What the fuck? The entire piece is criticizing them for criticizing me last time, and they like it? We leave class, and I could sleep standing. I am hungry, and could eat the entire library. I am breaking apart from the belly-button outward, I tell Devon. I am not sick, just . .. weird, I say. There is Scrubs, and then dinner. I get soup, cereal, and a salad, all the while feeling especially invisible to the crowd. We sit with Chelsea and I pick at my salad, eating it with my hands when I eat at all. We are watching ducks out the window and wondering about duck love and duck sex and duck drama, and she is more amused and talkative about these than I have ever seen her be about anything. They leave, and I am alone. I sit, finish my salad and half of my cereal, and take two spoonfuls of soup. I leave, tray mostly full, thinking how disgusted I am with the concept of eating. The sidewalk is quiet. I pass the library and feel my stomach empty enough to eat it again. What is this preoccupation? There is a duck in the Chicken Fountain. It sees me and hides behind a rock. I move, and it swims around to hide behind another rock. No one notices I'm there. I feel like I'm being pulled gently by some invisible force back to the dorm. I am certainly not walking. I do not feel real. I briefly wonder if this is what it's like to be high, but I've never been high and I am certainly not now. Tiny white things fall from the sky, and I think they are snowflakes. One hits me in the cheek. It feels solid. When I look up, they are not snowflakes, but tiny gnats flying around hectic-ly. I realize that when I focus on myself, I feel real and the world doesn't, but when I focus on the world, the reverse is true. The sky and my settings are all grey. I begin to wonder if I am trapped in one of my own poems. That's what color Earphones Guy said my poetry was . . . grey, right? There are two brown puddles beside the train tracks, and I imagine that the despair of our students lives in them. I walk through the hallway, and the girl behind me tells her chick friend that she won't sleep with "that guy" until she's sure they'll still be friends afterwards, because she's "not that big of a whore." Chick friend says she knows, and then begins to go into great detail about all their other friends, happily describing what huge sluts they are. I get into the room, put down my jackets, and pick up my computer. I begin typing on LJ.
I have that take-home test essay to finish, but every time I even pause writing in my LJ, I feel nauseous, heavy, and sleepy. Somethings wrong, but the world's not real, and so nothing can fix it.