Today is
Thursday. I know this because yesterday
was Wednesday, and tomorrow will be Friday.
It’s also St. Patrick’s Day, but I refuse to sacrifice a specific sense
of style for swill-guzzling amateurs. So
the only green I’m wearing is the fading Sharpie ink scrawled on my hand. “DRY CLEANING”, it says. I know what day it is because I keep track of
things now. I have a schedule to
keep. And dry cleaning to pick up.
It hasn’t
always been this way. When this ‘knowing
the days of the week’ life started it was just another unexpected adventure. An
adventure whose outcome I was excited for.
But this isn’t new anymore. It is
familiar and droning. And I knew this
would happen someday. Realizing what I’ve
become. Another spoke in the wheel. Waiting patiently in line for the train, for
a meal, for a drink, to consume.
Yesterday—Wednesday—I
spent $88.39 just to live a day in this life.
On nothing of substance, on nothing that made a memory. On coffee, and
lunch in plastic, and pharmacy. And dry
cleaning.
There was a
time I could wake up and have someone tell me where I was, the time of day, the
day of the week. I rarely brushed my
hair. I didn’t care if I packed
underwear. I cried loud. I laughed louder. I got up and walked away—whenever I wanted.
But today is
Thursday. Today I wake up to an alarm
clock. I swallow seven (7) pills every
morning, with food. I use post-its, I
take note, I draft rules and regulations--the ones I never seemed to understand
before. The ones I was always on the
verge of breaking—I have a reasonable number of cocktails with dinner. I own
guest towels. I swallow one (1) pill,
sometimes two (2), at bedtime—with eight ounces (8 oz.) or more of water as
directed. And I settle.
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