Tuesdays are the only days I get mail. Never has a subscription to Newsweek magazine brought me so much joy because that is the one day a week I can go to the mailbox and there is something for me. There is nothing quite like the tinge of disappointment in getting the mail and nothing is addressed to you. It's ten-times worse when you get a key to one of the big boxes only to discover that the package isn't for you. The rush of excitement you get when that key is sitting in your mailbox is palpable, comparable to the crushing defeat you feel when you finally read the name that isn't yours. People walking past me on the sidewalk as I meander back into the house look at me with pity and I know what they're thinking. "Poor girl, once again she got no mail. How very sad." I see it written all over their smug faces as they push their baby carriages and walk their dogs along the streets. How lucky they must feel when they open their mailboxes and see items addressed to them.

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http://www.flickr.com/photos/jaysantiago/ / CC BY-ND 2.0

People keep telling me that I'm overreacting, but I honestly think that I'm about to die. This cough is going to be end of me. It starts slowly, I open my mouth, about to say something, maybe to take a bite of food, or sip some water, and something goes terribly wrong. The real event begins when I inhale, something doesn't move quite right, something brushes over the trigger and I quickly close my mouth in an effort to stop the process, but then it's too late. My body starts to spasm in an effort to stifle the noise, my throat spasming uncontrollably, and I close my eyes and try to visualize what must be happening in my lungs. It's like a battle zone, my body is fighting itself and it's a battle to the death. I can't catch my breath, I clutch at my chest in an effort to demonstrate that the end is near. The people around me look at me with fear in their eyes, no one wants to watch someone die, but today they'll have to. Suddenly, with as much effort with which it began, the coughing stopped. I take a deep breath and sigh with relief. Everyone is asking me if I'm okay. Yes, I'm okay, I say, something just went down the wrong tube.

Yesterday I was filthy, covered in dirt and grime, food and drink, grease and oil. But today I am clean again. Clean after a delightful and welcome scrubbing, the warm, soapy water running into every crevice and spilling over every inch. The view is clear now, the room smells fresh and I feel brand new. This new me is not going to last long. It only takes a few days, hours even, for me to return to the same state I was in. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but people walk all over me. Nearly every day of my life I am trampled upon with no remorse. I remember the day I moved into this apartment, I fit perfectly in the space and was wonderfully clean, if not a little dusty. Life was good, until the day I wasn’t alone in my living space. The worst offender? The dog. Oh, how I loathe that dog with his constant slobbering all over me, dropping his food all over the place, plopping himself down wherever he wants. The cat is better, though she only deems to look down on me from the countertops. The people I can handle, since they are the ones ultimately in control of my condition. The lady is my favorite, she doesn’t seem to mind cleaning a dirty floor.