My clothes are hurting me. They pull on my shoulders and push on my skin and remind me that everything hurts. That's what I hate about November.
It's not just clothes. My seatbelt pushes on me and the desks at school punch me in the leg when I walk by, and it keeps hurting and hurting.
Once, I think it was in October or maybe September, I sat still in a hot bath and for 15 minutes I didn't feel any pain. I think that was a lifetime record. At least a decade's record. But now it's November, so no more pain-free quarters-of-hours for me, until at least June, I would think.
It's the weather. It hurts me. That's what I hate about November.
1 comment:
What I hate about November? I hate the rain. The hum drum rain--no little pitter patter here. No tap, tap, tapping on my windowpane . . . just glub, glub, glub and down falls more water and more water until I feel like a wet washcloth that someone forgot to ring out after last night's dishes and I'm tired of the rain and would like just a little sunshine, please and thank you very much.
I know it's not like pain. Rain is nothing like pain, except for their similarly dull rhyme, and I guess with rain at least I can go inside and find something sunny--my orange kitchen wall, Maya's yellow crayons, or a John Denver song--whereas you can't escape November's pain even inside or on the wall or the crayon box or the record player.
I'm sorry for that.
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