It’s Friday afternoon and my phone is buzzing
from friends with plans for weekend fun
of movies and dinners and laughter.
But I am not into it.
I have become somewhat of a recluse
clinging to my black leather couch
and refusing to get up.
I cross my pencil-stick legs Indian style,
cover up in my red throw, open a book,
and hide from the world.
It’s too bright out there—
my blue eyes can’t stand up to the sun,
my pallid skin hates the cold,
and I’m angered by this oxymoronic winter.
Shouldn’t it be dark when it’s this cold?
(We should be hibernating when it’s this cold!)
But instead we venture out
to packed restaurants and movie theaters
squeezing in next to each other,
body heat and grid lock traffic,
both of which make me anxious and annoyed.
That is why I took up smoking again,
too crowded places that people voluntarily visit
and then fuss that it’s too packed
it’s enough to make my head explode.
Staying home in front of the TV is safer,
no matter how boring that makes me.
Some would call me grumpy and jaded—
I prefer disenchanted.
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