staceybooks

I am not actually waiting for the microwave to finish.

I am lying awake in Tallahassee, here for work, on the 6th floor of a building with walls so thin they feel more like a suggestion than a structure.

I can hear people talking.

Not muffled talking.

Actual conversations.

At this point, I could contribute. I won’t. But I could.

This blog still has no lesson. No takeaway. No inspirational moment where everything suddenly makes sense. It’s just a collection of thoughts that appear the moment your body is exhausted but your brain refuses to cooperate.

Let’s start with walls.

Why are they made like this? Who decided this was acceptable? I am six floors up and can hear someone laughing like they’re in the room with me. Somewhere, an architect said, “Yes. This is fine,” and went home peacefully.

Also, why do we apologize to furniture?

“I’m sorry,” – me, whispering to the bed as I hit the corner with my shin.

Alarms deserve their own category, even though it is far too late to think about them.

The first alarm is optimism.

The second alarm is denial.

The third alarm is future regret.

Yet somehow, I will still trust myself to wake up on time tomorrow.

Grocery stores still don’t make sense.

I walk in needing three things.

I walk out with seventeen items, including something labeled “artisanal.” I don’t know what that means. I bought it anyway.

And emails.

I will reread an email ten times deciding whether “Thanks” sounds kind, cold, or unhinged. Then I’ll send it, reread it again, and briefly consider changing my name.

Back to the apartment.

The refrigerator hums like it’s judging me. There is always one tiny light that refuses to turn off. And somewhere nearby, someone is having a perfectly normal conversation at a volume that suggests they believe walls are optional.

I don’t like this.

If you’ve made it this far, congratulations. You have read something that accomplished absolutely nothing, which feels appropriate given the current circumstances.

If this is the beginning of a bestseller, just know it started here.

With thin walls.

Loud strangers.

And a microwave that was never involved.