16 September, 2009
There it was: that ephemeral experience of waking up and not knowing where the hell I was. It came to me quickly, as it usually does, and I understood that this strange apartment was my own. The couch I lay on was not mine, nor the coffee table or bookshelf next to me. It felt like a fucking hotel. Clean, unencumbered, sterile furniture that wasn't my own. What else could this be? But this place was my home and I'd have to adjust to it sooner or later. Still, I was not in my bed. I closed my eyes and waited a full minute before opening them again. The headache wasn't going away. Somehow I managed to remember where I had put the bottle of ibuprofen when I unpacked. I downed three pills with a standing glass of water and trumped down the stairs with one hand steadying myself on the banister. It was darker downstairs, and colder. I liked this, and fell right back asleep the moment I hit the bed.