Sunday
Sunday 9:57 am, the sun was shining high and the birds were chirping, but I would rather hear sharp nails on the chalkboard or exaggerated crying, filthy diapered babies pulling my hair, because next to waking up Sunday mornings, the small brown feathered critters were my least favorite. Sunday morning, I would rather jump off a cliff.
10:03 am, gravity pulls me down to my knees as if I am to plead for forgiveness. So I sacrifice the brunette strands off my head and beg, “never again.” If I did not then I would probably be forced to green linoleum tiles of the kitchen floor. I will have no choice but to lay there for awhile.
10:10 am, all natural organisms like water tasted like metallic shavings and rust formed into cleared pristine liquid. Ice cream took forever to reach the buds of my tongue without spilling or sticking to my inner thighs. Before I could even get the spoonful of vanilla to my lower lip, I was stumbling and bent over the toilet bowl again.
10:19 am, I am napping next to some blackish green fungus growing on the side of the toilet seat.
10:33 am, saliva trails down my cheek, my hair remains a lion’s mane and the red lipstick still stains my dress, but nothing bothers me as much as John’s number on my left hand. Smooth acid jazz vibes, lifts the spirits of the lounge including the black haired man with the ‘no ring,’ profile. As soon as I drop my eyes to the floor, he slowly swags through the crowd and makes his way towards me. Just to say, “Hi, I’m John.” What was I thinking? Gagging in my mouth, I would scrub the numbers with soap over and over again, for what seemed like hours, but the ink just would not erase. Permanent imprints from last night to leave me with more regrets.
From the sink, I finally notice the repugnant smell from my roommate’s bedroom. I could not help but think, “Thank God, Carol went home this weekend.” Trudging from the bathroom to Carol’s door, the stench becomes more distinct and so familiar to my body that my stomach churns and regurgitates the rest of the memories of last night-- it could not be any worst than the damage that has been done to Carol’s white panda sheets.
10:45 am, that one vein above my right temple, pulses all red bloody aggravation I am feeling towards this dreadful day. I make a 360 degree turn around my small abode, notice all the chores I am left with from Saturday nights to early Sunday mornings. Every Sunday equals hell. Sunday is my horrific reminder of Mondays, sitting in comparative politics, nodding yes to everything going on. Sunday is yet another holy day to evoke all my sins.
11:59 pm I feel disgusting.
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