i sneeze and the goosebumps trail up my legs, making me tuck them under me, and under the covers. i inhale and cough, allergies tugging at my head, tears gracing the edges of my eyelids. spring is coming, i think, i'm overcome with fatigue and apathy. the television is muted, playing cartoons or something. something meant to be humorous but really not unless you're twelve. it's three pm, and the blinds are disheveled just enough that i can see the silhouettes of clouds and white skies. dingy. palm trees sway outside and above my window, dancers that can't remember the steps to the song the wind is whistling.

an airplane passes overhead, people traveling, going places. i think they're lucky, thoughtless, lucky people who don't realize what they have. i don't like them, but then i do, and things still aren't really right.

the sun peeks out from behind the clouds and i feel the slightest shift in light, warmth. the angle makes it even less of a change than it really is, eastwardly-facing window and all that. my eyelids are heavy, exhaustion tying weights to my eyelashes that pull them down, obscure my vision, make it hard for me to focus. typical, really. i blame the dust mites.

another plane passes overhead, different direction, though. the sound interrupts my thoughts, conversations with my subconscious, determining whether sleep would be pertinent or just a waste of time. i muse on this, and the jet engine gets fainter. it's northbound, from what i can tell, what i can guess.

i cough again, fight back a sneeze, pulling up my eyelids like pants without a belt. staring at but not really watching the flickering tv, hopelessly playing reruns of cancelled shows that everyone wants back, everyone needs back, but the creators went and quit on. so they play reruns, endless reruns, and everyone says it's the next best thing, everyone laughs along to the same joke they heard yesterday, claim it's the same. but it's not, new things are always different, better, but probably worse. nostalgia can only get you so far.

i pick up the stuffed toy sitting beside me, full of little plastic pellets, beans, beads, whatever you'd call them. i mess with its nearly-sparkling polyester fur, trace my finger over its seams, boredom playing my soul like a piano, melodiously and in such ways that you'd think boredom were mozart. but probably bach, boredom is deaf, after all, at least, to childish, solemn cries of "i'm bored!" and relentless wishing for its departure. a misunderstanding on its part, plaguing those who will it gone most but being there most. or perhaps, not at all misunderstood, perhaps boredom merely enjoys taunting those too uncreative to come up with an occupation, occupy their own time, have a life, or even just those without an internet connection to waste their time upon.

but back to the plush; it's a hamster, or a guinea pig, really, no one is exactly sure. i prefer to call it a hamster, just because, hamsters are cooler. he (it) has a name, a simple one, named after someone in some convoluted way i can't remember. only it wasn't convoluted at all, but the opposite, antonym, whatever that is. had there been an easier way to give a given name to an inanimate object, i wouldn't know it, nor would i follow it. simplicity is fine and dandy, but no one likes too much of a good thing. unless that good thing is not that good, in which case, having too much of it would be like having a regular amount of a really good thing. or would it? i don't even know.

the guinea-hamster-pig's name is jesse, kind of silly if you really think about it. named after a kid i've gone hopelessly mad for… hopelessly. everyone knows it, too. 'cept for him, it seems, i take it he doesn't believe me when i tell him, acts like i'm just making it up, like i don't know what i'm saying, like it's a head cold and i'll get over it. really, i don't think so. he doesn't know it, but, the sheer amount of feelings i have for him would probably, if shoved inside of the sun, cause some kind of impossible flux in energy, leading to the end of the human race, not to mention the world as we knowit. but who has time for apocalyptic scenarios? apparently not him. shame, too. i love those kinds of movies.

i place the plush on my chest, approximately between my in-ample bosoms, where i put most everything i don't want to hold while lying down. my body is like lead, heavy, approximately 140 pounds, kind of chunky and rubbish looking. but not like lead in that i can't be melted down and put into pencils, or painted onto children's toys by chinese factory workers, or used to ineloquently and cliche-ly illustrate exhaustion, or found on the periodic table. so really, not at all like lead, and that was a really inaccurate simile.

as i drift off to sleep, i wonder, think, the sun painting bright stripes on my shadowy walls. i think about the world, about life, my life, his life, her life, everyone's lives. i wonder how people stand it, all the blasphemous statements and ridiculously inept, stupid people. all the awkwardness and unorthodoxy, all the odd things, little things, good, bad and tragic things. i don't know how i stand it, even. that's probably why i spend so much time sitting down, because i can't stand it, and only make jokes, be humorous, only not at all funny. make jokes at other people's expense because i'm a bad, wounded, somber person who wants to be sober but can't cut this addiction, to you, to dark holes in my head that i wallow in, to self-pity and self-loathing, to complete selfish disregard for other people's opinions about my deterioration. to what has become my life, my love, my dearest deep-dark-dream, my hulking, whorish nightmare.

i'm addicted to living life like i'm dead.