I need no doctor to tell me I’m sick. I woke up this way.
Los Angeles 1985. Men in ringer tees. Women in leotard. Bright skies, that summer. The threat of becoming famous tickled the tops of our arms.
It still does. You should go. You’ll notice it this time.
I went to bed one day; I woke up broken the next. Or maybe I just noticed it for the first time. Maybe I flipped years before. Another me snuck in and hid under the table, surviving on saltines and song lyrics. Waiting for 1985. Waiting for summer.
Who’s to say?
What I know is this: I’m contagious. Love me and you’ll catch the bug. All you can do is ride it out. Hydrate. Get rest. Watch game shows on the couch.
I’m not sure I’m worth it. I hope you feel better soon.