A forgotten portion of my subconscious asked, “How are you doing?”
The only answer I could come up with was, “Not bad?” I said it like a question and the small part of me tittered. Not bad could mean a number of fascinating things. The truth is less pleasant and always is. The truth is that it is the end of the semester and I have a gargantuan pile of grading to look forward to and absolutely no desire to deal with any of it. The truth has tiny pearl-colored teeth sharpened to fang points and it has terrible breath.
The smaller me asked again, “Seriously, how are you?”
I didn’t have enough time to get my shit together and come up with a thoughtful and nuanced answer. So I just said, “I’m bored, lonely, and unseasonably cold.” That last part felt like the kind of thing a weather reporter would say and it made the smaller me laugh. Me and (me) share thoughts, so there was really no use in dodging the reality of how I was feeling. But (me) is addicted to good humor, and I thought I could distract it for long enough to slam the door closed on my subconscious or at least bury it in pop music and cat videos.
I started thinking about Michelle Wolf, and the Gilmore Girls, and Kiss. Then the alarm went off and ten minutes slid into history.
I breathed a sigh of relief.