What is Modern Love? If The NY Times Likes My Definition of It: It’s a $1,000.
Your eyes have never felt more wide open — like they are taking in too much light, sucking in all the bending and twisting space/time-continuum. I am staring at the ceiling which is all too close to the lofted bed I am lying in. If time and space are indeed one thing, then my hand touching the ceiling is a Goddamn joke. Five minutes flat, I swing my legs over and clamber down the ladder. I feel like a lanky old man haphazardly stomping on each step, feigning youth and feeling every stiff and creaking bone. When I look in the mirror in the bathroom, my eyes are not wide open as they feel, rather small and misshapen.
I have kept odd hours today. Crashing last night at 10 p.m., waking up in 2 hour intervals to read or brush my teeth. I am used to falling asleep around 3 a.m. and so the day has been pretty iffy so far. I am not sure if it exists.
I woke up for real around 5 a.m. and studied for my class. Started walking to class two hours later. Got back home at 10:30 a.m. Crashed thirty minutes later. Slept through my next two classes until 2 p.m.
The only time my eyes seem to be fully awake is when they are tired from the day and ready to close and swell shut again.
I ate the rest of the Milk Duds because I know they will haunt me either way. Leave them in peace and I will just eat them later. Mine-as-well down them all right now. My jaw hurts from all the chewing. My stomach will soon hurt from all the digesting.
The Milk Duds are from a test review game during a class yesterday. My team won a box of them for losing. A girl I vaguely know kept them safe overnight and plopped them next to me this morning in a game of Milk Dud hot potato.
I had romantic notions of riding myself of them. It was too late in the game for another classmate to receive them though. I thought maybe a roommate would enjoy some when I got home.
I do not even like Milk Duds.
This eerie and unsettling feeling keeps rising up my neck. I blame it on a strange concoction I made in the blender earlier today. It tastes like sap, grit and the pesticides used on South American fruit.
My dream-world has not been any better than the waking.
… Strange dreams of dwarf witches pulling oddly dressed clones out of the floorboard cracks. They line up and try to stop a roommate who has become a werewolf and is shooting down the household with an Uzi. For awhile the perspective is first-person and I could very well be the werewolf. Many cameo appearances from people who should not be in my dreams.