The 1 AM return across George Street
Is becoming as familiar as not feeling my face on the way back.
How in the hell did I sweat through two different shirts tonight?
If my pores could chill, I could dance dry, feel normal. That’s all I want.
Brushing up against my arm wouldn’t cause anyone to dry heave.
But that’s just the way it is. no matter how many clicks I take myself down.
Me and my coat of slime are together 4ever, no matter how many clicks I take myself down.
“Maybe I’ll check WedMD..” I mutter to myself aloud, fishing for my key in my pockets.
No key. Fuck.
The night’s no longer about fantasies of a dry life.
Now I’ve gotta do acrobatics to get myself in.
Zach comes up in the middle of my nervous pacing.
“Grab a spare from the porter, I’ll prop up the first door.”
Problem solved, I guess. Thanks, Chief.
I get my laundry basket (full of damned sweaty dance clothes)
And just do it.
I’m asleep by two, in my own cozy little bed.
I wake up like clockwork for breakfast, still no key.
I’ve got half a clue where it is, asking feels embarrassing.
I make a rare move and sleep in through an Oxford morning.
I’m still tipsy on the first step, I grab a water cup and curse hydration under my breath.
I want my key, but I want to be dry too.
I’m bedridden, thinking big thoughts till housekeeping comes in
And gives me the unspoken nod to get the hell out of here.
Thoughts keep swimming in my ocean of a head.
Alisa’s bus is coming.
Innerspace starts in ten.
I want this day to start off right.
“So what do I do?” I ask to myself.
“Don’t Sweat It.”