When there is this melee on the inside and this endless sunshine on the outside, the disorientation is consuming. I want to stand on my rooftop in my giant bug-eyed Prada sunnies that take up half my face; my sunscreen so thick it looks like paste--the kind that the kid who next to you in kindergarten wouldn't stop eating; layer upon layer of cotton sheltering my skin; old-fashioned wide-brimmed, pointy witch hat on; screaming at everyone that passes by: “Put a fucking sweater on! I hate the fucking summer!”
All those fresh young things, walking around topless, bottomless, eating avocados fresh from the tree, gnawing on the pits for extra nutrients or whatever, popsicle juice dripping down their chins, flip flops slapping the concrete, just a line of zinc on their noses, suntan oil glistening on their shoulderblades, fringe peppering their everythings, particularly their midriffs—in their health, I cannot even an inkling of me.
I'm hiding from the sun, hiding from life, hiding from the cigarettes and smog and car-honking/ambulance-blaring that could accost my senses and send me into The Migraine Blitzkrieg of 2016 in the blink of a fake-eyelashed eye.
So here I am…really, wearing a sweater sewn out of four different kinds of cat hair, many mis-matching leopard prints, and unwashed hair. The right balance or natural light, electric light and candlelight, air filter plunged in and running, I'm keeping hydrated, I can't let myself get hungry or tired or cranky. I'm a damn good migraine wet-nurse.