Invincible in Magenta

My lids open at 6 a.m. and my eyes dart across the ceiling. My brain begins working furiously to solve complex mathematical equations while I simultaneously write a whimsical Haiku. Just kidding.

My morning thoughts are this:

Why did I send that text to my crush last night at exactly 7:02? This is torture. Why did I have to be so uncool about everything? Not only did I wait four hours to respond to his text, I sent him a string of texts in response as if not speaking to him for four hours was an unbearable task and therefore had to unleash my cooped up feelings in a cascade of desperation.

Besides, my read-receipt exposed me: Read at 3:02 p.m.

Great, just great. This is definitely not helping my 2015 resolution to be a femme fatale. More like femme desperado. I haven’t attempted to roll over and check my phone that’s glinting sardonically in the cold sunlight, but my bed-slug antennae have already alerted me that he hasn’t texted back.

I don’t need to be reminded twice.

Thinking about my impending chemistry exam is too much for my fragile heart at this early hour. Unrequited love compounded with heaps of organic chemistry? Now my paralyzing embarrassment is melting into self-pity. Let me wallow in it.  I am almost at the point of screaming at my green ceiling, “Why me?”

Ok, done. Now, my neighbors think I am a nut case. Check.

It’s almost 8 a.m. The day is about to sweep over this morning spectacle/disaster show I’ve just just put on for myself. I somehow need to slowly transition from bed-slug into human. The magenta Acne ankle boots at the foot of my bed are begging to be worn, which means I will need legs. And now that I think about it, I would like to strut around in them while listening to Florence and the Machine for a couple of minutes. Ok, done. I grew legs. I put shoes on. We’re making progress.

Florence Welch is now crooning to me out of my computer: “Madam, my dear, my darling, tell me what all the sighing’s about.” Thank you, Florence. I am not entirely sure. My mind is flittering back to that guy.

No, stop. I am invincible in these magenta boots.

Image Shot by Angelo Pennetta for T Magazine