I am sick

and for all my plans of living (my post-quarter life) in solitude, when my eyes feel like bursting, face burning, head reeling, all I want is for someone to take care of me. But everybody’s busy or out, so I buy meds from the drugstore and lugaw from the corner carinderia, eat alone at the table, take my temperature, pop tablets, slap Koolfever onto my forehead, and clamber into bed.

[at this point, “Help!” by the Beatles starts to play]

No matter how great the space we profess to need, even the most misanthropic or narcissistic person needs someone to be with and talk to–even if it’s just his reflection. If only his reflection made him feel loved or needed or wanted.

Indeed there is comfort in routine, and so I listen to familiar songs on dreary days, and when I am sad I eat my meals on time even if I am not hungry, and when it rains and plans are cancelled and people fail to come and things are lost or not gained at all, I huddle into the cocoon of my bed and read a novel where everything has a pattern, a pace, a logic, where all the loose ends are tied together or sheared off, leaving nothing but neat knots and hems.

I wish I’d think of or experience something funny soon. I am rather tired of this melancholy prose.

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