Hard-Boiled

The moment I feel obligated to do something, is the minute I want to run for the hills.

I am starting to itch again.

This morning, the property manager dispensed medicines and made some snarky, underhanded remarks about my “performance” in sober living. Everyone wants me to put roots down here and I am chafing.

The South Florida heat keeps climbing.

I walked a mile in it to get a pack of Blue American Spirit cigarettes, passing crumbling edifices of Americana on the way, all while the outdoor washer and dryer at our apartment complex churned away my roommate and I’s laundry.

My ersatz kid sister can errs on the side of codependency, which I also chafe under. “We…” she says, “we, we, we…”

I hate the royal “we”.

Maybe I’m just in a rotten, hard-boiled mood because of my period.

I want to go home. I want to go home to my records and my wardrobe and my books. I took for granted my independence when I had it, now I yearn for it. I yearn not having to check in places. I yearn for even the razor’s edge of possibility of making a mistake and erring, being human. I yearn even more for people not checking on me all hours of the night and when I can wake up.

I’m homesick and tired of this South Florida heat.