I am sitting on the floor with a glass of wine, wondering where you are; what you might be doing and whom you might be with; fuming with jealousy and anger over imagined scenarios that get worse the longer I spend thinking about them. My glass is empty but I don’t see the point in filling it. Instead I drink straight from the bottle, staring down into its bottom as if it holds the answers to my problems. Really all it does is blend them into one, gigantic mutation of all of the things that cause me pain. I know that I am hurt, but I can no longer pinpoint exactly why. (And the carpet itches me.)
This is how I spend my time lately—sitting and drinking and thinking. I couldn’t go outside even if I wanted to. The last time I did I found a bird that had fallen from the sky and died at my front door. I’m terrified of birds and stopped leaving the house altogether. I had already begun calling in sick to work quite frequently, so it wasn’t hard to stop going completely. I have enough money to last me a while, but I plan on getting well enough to work again long before the money runs out. And, as a last resort, I’d like to think my parents would be willing to help their eldest child.
I have recruited an acquaintance and neighbor of mine to bring me necessities every two weeks. He usually stays for a bit after he drops off my groceries, to update me on the goings-on of the world. Occasionally we sleep together. I can’t feel anything but he seems to enjoy it and, when I am lucky, it briefly distracts me from thoughts of you. However, often I am too entrenched in self-pity and neurosis to interact and open the door just wide enough for the paper bag to be slipped in and the small wad of cash for next time to be slipped out.
Entertainment is scarce. I’ve read the same books ten times over and have no TV to watch since you pawned it for gas money. My walls are covered in abandoned lists of “My Aspirations” and poorly drawn scenes of a place I’d like to be, the white paint stained with pink moons over rainbow mountains that tumble into a golden sea where only the people I like are allowed to swim. Except it’s all black and blue because I have no colored pens or markers, and now there’s hardly any space left. So, while I have the time and these thoughts are so loud, there is not much else to do but write. Maybe it will help you to see things the way I did, if that should be of any use at all. Mostly though, I just think it would be nice to remember how life had been.
Mila Podlewski is a recent college graduate and fledgling writer struggling to stay afloat in the real world. She lives in Los Angeles with Oswald, her kitten and blogs at meohmila.wordpress.com