and while she pees, she surfs the internet for some help, but she is not going to fall for those opioids — haven’t you heard of the crisis? — she’d rather try something else, and this may take a while, so she makes herself comfortable in the bathroom, and she realizes it’s been days since she last pooped, so she gives it a go while reading The New Yorker on her phone, but it only worsens her anxiety, so she switches to Instagram and — hey, look at Nancy’s pic of her Jacuzzi! — now she fantasizes about having a Jacuzzi of her own, except with bigger candles and more rose petals and better wine, and as wine comes to mind she gets a brilliant idea — how about some tequila? — she heads to the living room through a dark hallway, opens the cabinet where she hides the bottles from her nosy husband, and as she pours a shot, remembers she doesn’t like Jacuzzis anyway, but boy, oh boy, does she like the burn of tequila going down her throat, and its flavor makes her mouth so wet — maybe one more shot — but suddenly she feels embarrassed and asks herself whether she might be drinking a little bit too much lately, so she goes back to bed, regretting those drinks — how am I going to be a famous writer if I can’t stop drinking? And everyone is so into yoga now — and yoga leads to another brilliant idea: she should try meditation! So she puts on her headphones and searches for some music that might relax her, but just as she’s about to inhale, a sound comes from her husband’s side of the bed — look at him, so untroubled, so far away, snoring so damn loud! — and that just breaks her with envy and desperation, so she takes off her headphones and bursts into (quiet) tears. She is exhausted. She wonders if being a writer is worth it. And then she thinks of a woman who wants to sleep but cannot, and she lies upside down in bed, imagining herself alleviated from her burden, that unbearable burden of the head and all the noise that’s coming from inside…
And then she falls asleep.
