Woke up in the morning and
feeling a tingly-strange—
drinking coffee straight black,
cup by cup I pour it down my
allergy ridden, reddened throat.
Yet still, my mind
is ever so foggy,
from the previous night’s
shenanigans.
I am chatty, and a little grimy—
makeup remnants still litter my face,
my hair could use a good washing,
my arm is riddled with bar stamps
and my toes are black
because I walked
home barefoot—
damn hells.
But still,
I’m oddly content.
It is my only day off
from my menial,
going-nowhere job.
Today is my
do whatever I want day.
I almost squeal with glee
because I realize I won’t have to
talk to overly excited
obese citizens waddling
into the bakery,
drooling at the pastries.
I turn to my dear friend,
whose house I am at
literally more often
than my own,
her couch still
has my imprint
within its cushions,
and say,
I think I’m still buzzed…
or maybe is this just what
being really happy feels like?
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