Dreary Day
I'm so sick of this drizzly, rainy, humid weather. I'm starting to sprout mildew from my wrinkles. This, of course, is a tragic disadvantage because it only draws more focus on them. Plus my hair won't cooperate on days like these. It's like each strand is kicking and screaming as it slowly drowns in the 150% humidity. I look like a member of the Mod Squad, sans afro comb and weak on pigment. And the dark dreariness that has become my new reality makes me so damn tired. I roll out of bed feeling more exhausted than when I collapsed into it. Whenever anyone asks me how I am (a question usually prefaced with looks of pity normally reserved for death row inmates) I answer, "I'm okay. Just recooperating." "Recooperating from what?" they ask, probably because it's only 8:43 AM. "From sleeping" is my reply, demonstrating my true nature as a slug burdened by extreme levels of lethargy and laziness. I look out of the window through the thick condensation and into the dismal grayness and ask myself, "I have HOW many hours before me of lugging around this lazy sack of cellulite ladened with 3 pounds of mildew?" If you hear me say this out loud, for the love of God, please don't answer. It may send me into a tailspin, spurring me to plunge myself into the smothering fog to drown. You don't want that on your conscience now, do you?