and drool on my pillows and curl inside my blankets, waiting for my leg hairs to spike stubbly until they're longer and softer and bearable to rub against each other. i wouldn't shower or eat or drink water. the most i'd get up for is pissing or adjusting my body as to avoid a pressure ulcer. i'd leave my fan on blasting cold air at me and push open both my enormous windows. hope for pneumonia. i'd only keep my wristwatch, my glasses, and my laptop by my side because i don't really have anything else. if i could stretch far enough, i'd peel out a book from my small library, which is approximately two feet away from the foot if my bed. if i can't stretch far enough, i'll surrender back to bed, stare at my ceiling or the empty wall in front of me because my mother decided to prop up all my sketches beside me, over my head. i'd listen to the loud ticks of my wristwatch because it's a very shitty wristwatch, but lately i'd been more interested in looking at it for the time from time to time than i'd been interested in anything. you see, i'm wildly uninterested and bored and dulled by everything that has come my way. truth may be that this pretty pity i'm drawing is sad and pathetic, and i should leave my bed. but it's sad out there and i'm sad out there and for now, i'd rather be sad in here, drooling on my pillows and waiting for my leg hairs to spike stubbly. but incidentally, as life would have it, i have to go to work in an hour. and drawing a picture of being someone entirely surrendered to lethargy and the promise of truly absolutely nothing, i have to get up. i have to crawl out of here and play nice.
ps. there's no coffee left.
