Sunday Night

It’s almost seven after a long day. Not sure whether I want to be awake or asleep, I settle for limbo as I sit in the worn-out office chair ignoring the twang of discomfort the exposed spring gives my back.

I always sit in this thing strangely and wonder why my back and legs hurt -- mostly on my lower back with my head coming to the mid-back of the chair, one leg curled up near my chest with the other foot rested on the kitchen counter. My back hurts.

For a long time my eyes stared at the vast void-of-a-kitchen in front of me, at the buzzing fluorescent light and the open spice cabinet; at the pile of cookbooks, fly zapper (useless -- I took the batteries out to power a game controller. Worth it), grocery bags, my dusty purse; at the half-eaten pie with flies circling overhead. I’m not sure why we ever bother cleaning that counter: by the end of the afternoon there’s stuff all over it again. I’m sure my mother would be real proud if she were to see this mess again.

I get bored of staring and close my eyes, and with my right foot on the only clean corner on the counter, I swivel the office chair from side to side. I’m reminded of childhood, trying to fall asleep to the soothing rocking of grandmother’s old wooden chair. It’s nice, but my back still hurts.

I reposition my head so that it isn’t lolled uncomfortably on my left shoulder. I pay extra attention to my surroundings, not having anything better to do: when the chair’s swiveled this way, my eyes feel the sting of the kitchen light, and the twinge of pain in my leg because it’s currently bent kind of sideways. I feel the sharp coldness and sudden rush of air -- the fan is pointed that way and I’m not currently protected by the back of the chair. I pivot to face something else.

My eyes still closed, whatever’s on the TV becomes louder for me. I’m more aware of the soppy murder/romance movie my dad’s watching. I don’t know why he picked this movie, and I think he’d be better off watching those black-n-white westerns he usually does. They fit him more.

I glanced at the clock quickly, half-surprised that I’m a little dizzy from the chair: it’s 7:07, and I’m wondering why my dad’s not watching Big Brother as he usually so faithfully does. Guess he just wants to finish the movie. I don’t care either way for some of his reality shows, but at least Big Brother would give me something vaguely amusing to listen to.

I go back to having my eyes closed and pivoting back and forth. Back and forth. One can go mad going back and forth. Back and forth.

I’m a little hungry. I could go for a sandwich, but if I got up to make one, my dad would probably mutter something annoyed-sounding about how I should eat the pie he made. I like pie, but it’s all I’ve eaten for the past day and I want something new. Personally, I think he should only make stuff if he’s going to help me eat it. But I guess making a pie was just his way of being nice.

I sigh and open my eyes again to the computer desk. Not really a much of a desk, but I remember thinking it fancy when we first got it. It’s covered in all sorts of junk, mostly mine: stack of never-ending papers, Big Red gum (the kind that burns your tongue because for some reason you can’t stop chewing it), gaudy red nail polish, duck-shaped pencil sharpener which doesn’t work. On the other side there’s a bunch of old photos, pliers, a Christmas bow, and -- hey, Gameboy Advanced…except I think I also stole those batteries to fuel something else. There’s also a small pile of clay and the plastic bottle of Zoloft -- I think it’s absurd that the directions have to tell you to take them by mouth.

That list of things on my computer desk is but a fraction of what’s actually there, though. It’s horribly messy, and, like the counter, refuses to stay clean for more than a few hours. So I stopped trying.

I guess it’s kind of sad. A lot I do is at that computer. And when I’m not on there, I’m playing video games in the living room. I don’t go out. I don’t go shopping. A pretty bad example of a teenager, probably. If I didn’t go to school, I’d probably end up a hikikomori (for all you Japanese-speakers out there…or all you otaku). Honestly, with this computer and my video games and a good cook as a father, if I hadn’t met some of the people I met so far in high school, being a hikikomori wouldn’t sound too bad.

My stomach growls. I get up while my dad is busy yelling at the TV (60 Minutes is on instead of Big Brother for some reason) and steal a piece of bread from the kitchen, hoping he doesn’t notice and gripe that we still have pie. Even if he did I’d probably just shrug and keep eating, though.

Once I finish, my dad gets up to get a can of beer. He gives me this big smile and motions to the counter, telling me to feel free to have pie for breakfast. I nod but don’t smile. I’ll have cereal for breakfast, because it’s a school day, and having anything other than cereal for breakfast before school will throw off the rest of my day. And on school days, especially in the morning, I need the same routine. Every day. Every day.

Again my eyes wander to the clock. 7:31. Another clock reads 7:32, and another, 7:45. We have too many clocks. My dad glances at the 7:45 clock and grins: “In another four weeks at this exact time, we’ll be climbing the steps to the train!” He’s been counting down the trip to N’Orleans since six weeks ago. I’m not kidding: almost every time he looks at the clock, he gives me that big old smile and reminds me how many weeks (or days) we have left. I have another four weeks left of that, and by this time, the main reason I look forward to it is just so he’ll stop counting it down.

I sigh. I’ll have to go to bed soon, to get an early start. Zoloft takes away sleep, so I try to go to bed early on the off-chance I’ll end up falling asleep at some reasonable time. Granted, I go to bed early anyway…but now I go even earlier. Insomnia pretty much sucks, especially for me: on a normal night I can take anywhere from an hour to three hours to fall asleep, and insomnia at least doubles it. During the day I’m of course drowsy, and I’m thankful to have American Studies class and two hours of notes to sleep though, but I’d still prefer sleeping at night so that I don’t have to lay awake staring at the ceiling for ten hours. Gawd.

I don’t know why I’m writing this now. Maybe to put off going to bed. Actually that’s probably it: the sooner I go to bed, the sooner I start getting to know my ceiling for ten hours, the sooner 5:31 comes and I have to get up, and the sooner I walk through the rain to school. Living in the Midwest means no hurricanes, but it sure doesn’t mean no rain during hurricane season. Gustav and Ike have been punishing us too. And rain’s incredibly depressing, even for a girl taking Zoloft.

My mom used to call this the Sunday Blues. Last few hours of the weekend and then it’s Monday and nobody’s in that great of a mood. Last few hours of laziness and pivoting in your uncomfortable chair, and then it’s Monday and you’re stuck in an even less comfortable wooden chair that doesn’t spin at all. Last few hours of something resembling freedom and then it’s Monday and you’re stuck in the monotonous confinement of the American educational system, listening to the low droning of Mr. Kaczmerikowski and the high-pitched whine of Queen Schou.

Unlike the hours of your Sunday nights, the hours of the school day fall slowly away from the clock and melt into nothingness. We’ll do nothing with these hours and hours of American History and Trigonometry and cruel PE class. These are supposedly those mystical “golden years” of our lives, and yet half of it is filled with things that mean nothing. There are no classes on Tact or Intuition or Business Dealings -- or any of the really useful skills we’ll all need in the Real World. Which is a shame for all the really useful people who can’t even spell tact, much less use it when it’s really needed.

I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know why I’m wasting time here going back and forth from writing to Big Brother to Deviantart and back again. I can do this sort of thing for hours on end and not even notice the stream of time. It’s 8:15 and I’ve been sitting here twenty minutes staring at a stack of orange sticky notes with a message to myself to meet some place at some time for some reason. All very pointless.

All very pointless.

But everything’s all very pointless, isn’t it? But it must be, I said so twice.

All very pointless.

I don’t know what I’m doing here.