Dystopia

July 9, 2009

The sun was finally out in San Francisco, but she still felt foggy. Waking up had been quite difficult today. There was nothing to do and nothing to look forward to. She thought that an English muffin with all-natural chunky peanut butter and sugar-free raspberry jelly would make her feel better — though most other things had lost their luster and appeal, inexplicably the gluttonous appeal of food had remained as strong as ever — but she took one bite, chewed it for at least a minute, and decided no, not today.
It had always seemed to her a chore to do things outside of her home. Finishing up a novel or reading a new issue of The New Yorker could be done just as easily — definitely more comfortably — in pajamas under a fluffed down comforter, steaming mug of peppermint tea waiting on the nightstand — than in a cafe or splayed out on a towel in the park, THE spot to see and be seen, coolly feigning disinterest in the innumerable bearded cyclists donning vintage button-up plaid shirts and black skinny jeans.
It was easier to exist in a bubble, she thought, because as she had recently learned, when one ventures into life outside a bubble, the result is too painfully often heartbreak.

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