Menthol-Guy

When I close the door I sometimes hear a roommate sleeptalk in this gargling sound, like a gulp of a toilet, though less disgusting. The three of us haven’t been seeing much lately, the fact that I always go out at night and sleep at day; my schedules, their schedules; their girlfriends, my organizations; my inability to hibernate at night, or as they put it, the fear of sunlight, or of the fact that the sun rises after the night has passed; my coffee intake increasing, their consuming of apples their mother sent them, and junk food; my earphones, their music; my want of silence, their want of a background music; my passion for anything artistic, their passion for anything you can play in a PSP–the cheats, the latest versions, the potions their digital characters drink in a battle, the quests; my writing workshops every Thursday, their cuddling sessions with their girlfriends; my private dates, their suspicions that I drank again, their noses tired from the smell of alcohol, of beer, of the cigarette smoke clinging on my shirt; my lifestyle, their lifestyle; my appetite, their appetites.

I used to hate being alone, but now I’m starting to miss it. But I’d rather stay. The two of them are exceptionally understanding.