I don’t feel sad. That’s the surprising thing. I feel fine. Worried, more than anything. How long will my fiancé stand this? When will my friends finally give up on me? Can I get up tomorrow? I turn over and pull the covers up to my chin. I like to roll my fist in them, get a nice big lump of comfort against my cheek. Trying to disregard the whiff of unwashed body that blows temporarily up my nasal passages, my eyes close but I don’t rest. My toes are cold. My rings are too big. Maybe I’ll do some laundry. I open my eyes and glance down at the pile in my closet. I sigh. Close my eyes again, too overwhelmed by the tangled chaos that my wardrobe has become. I visualize the regular people, going for hikes, laughing at coffee shops, sitting on the beach… Seems like something I saw in a movie once. Not reality. Not what people actually do with their time. I want to call someone. But not really. What would I say? “Hi Jen, I can’t get out of bed again today. What? Just make myself do it? Oh, ok.” Sigh. I turn over, reset my fisted quilts against the other cheek. Gazing at bookshelves filled with pages I’ve already read. Why are they here? So dusty. Useless. Just like me. Dusty with remorse, guilt, self doubt, flaking skin cells. My scalp is a forest, rank with the oil spill of night sweats and dirty pillowcases. I really don’t feel sad. I’m not hungry. Can I sit up? Yes. Oh, but it’s very cold. My hands are apples left too long on a shelf. Lie back down. A water glass rimmed with days of Burt’s Bees lip marks, filmed by greasy fingertips, waits to be refilled. Shall I wash it? The wine glass has been there longer, fruit flies, no longer intrigued by fermenting wine, have moved on to that parallel dimension in which they exist, waiting. Have I been here forever? It feels like always. It feels like it will be always.