It used to cling to me like an electric skin whenever I emerged from the NY subway.

A film that crinkled uncomfortably with every motion.

Sometimes it made its way from within, a buzz anchored in coffee and a glazed raspberry filled donut from the steel plated cart at 53rd and 3rd.

These days it stalks in the evening when children complain and disobey and the fucking HBO won’t work properly.

It drives thoughts to places that are unhelpful and unloving. Lonely, miserable corner of self-pity.

I can’t walk it off. I can’t sleep it off. I can’t read it off. I can’t drive it off. I can’t talk it off. I can’t drink it off (Oh, no, I can’t drink it off.)

I’d like to fuck it off, but that takes two and it makes me unattractive to her and too selfish to want anything but self-satisfaction.

Agitation.

I fucking hate you.