It’s the 23rd day of July, 22 days after my surgery
I wake up feeling nauseous – I could never correctly spell that word without a spell-checker
I have attributed the cause of the nausea to what I had for dinner last night
It’s barely 9:00am on a Monday, but I can’t wait for the week to end already
My gut really feels like it’s about to come out through my mouth
I somehow have successfully made it to class non-the-less
My seatmate continues to want to have a conversation despite the fact that I’m putting on an earpiece and making the most I-don’t-want-to-talk face I can muster
I feel like relationships are somewhat like nauseas
I went to sleep on the eve of my last breakup believing I and my ex would last forever
But when I woke up, I could feel the heartbreak try to force its way out of my mouth
I could feel words form in my mind that my brain did not fully comprehend or even attempt to decipher
I always considered myself a good talker, capable of convincing even the devil to repent, until I – in my head – carefully pieced words threaded together to not break her heart, yet she broke down like the towers of Babel on my laps
Her tears spilled like coffee on a plane hit by turbulence
You could never convince an atheist that the world was going to end yesterday
Why am I thinking about my ex again?
My tummy rumbles like afterquakes threatening to spill the secrets of the Illuminati
My music player doesn’t want to stop playing Sam Smith
Why is my lecturer not yet in class?

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