For a brighter f(l)uture

The sun rose and set every day this week. I am sure it must have. Someone would have told me otherwise. I wouldn't know though, not from the artificially induced gloom of my bedroom, or from under my millefeuille bed of blankets. I watched the goings on of outside from the comfort of my bed, filtered through my laptop via online news sources. It was an important week, like most weeks, but I had absolutely nothing to do with it.

My horoscope arrived via email and, to my relief, at least promised me a future. Some people emailed, others called to check in, but I didn't actually see or touch another warm body for three days. I wouldn't have known so many days had passed if it wasn't for a call reminding me of a friend's birthday party. I hadn't bought a gift.

The last interaction I remembered was ordering in. I knew I was falling ill, and decided to treat myself to a giant hot chicken noodle soup cure. The delivery man, like all delivery men, got lost in my building, and I ventured out in my pyjamas to find him with only that one thing on my mind. So I left the safety of my apartment, used the last bits of my stamina to run down three flights of stairs, and realized suddenly, coldly, that I was locked out. Mine is not a merciful god.

I shivered in the frosty entrance and buzzed the concierge. When she finally answered, she seemed unwilling to understand my predicament. We jostled the conversation between French and Spanish, both muffled through the fog of my fever, and finally reached an agreement. She would lend me her copy of my house keys, but she wouldn't like it. The deal seemed fair to me.

Nearly a full week later, I've come to.

I'm a few pounds lighter, totally exhausted, and all that has seemed to change is that crying is now en vogue for U.S. presidential candidates.