What a strange week. I knew something was missing the minute I saw Monday, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I tried everything, but nothing provided the sort of insight needed to solve the puzzle. Putting my finger on the shriveled grape I found under the refrigerator was fruitless, and the bit of lint in my navel only made me giggle when I touched it. I'm ticklish anyway, but my bellybutton is exceptionally reactive. I worry about it coming undone, which might be a dangerous situation if rudder control is lost and I accidentally fly through the kitchen window before someone has the chance to open it first. I didn't want to touch the old woman who lives next door, because sometimes people don't understand my motives as well as I do.
Tuesday came and went, but I wasn't any closer to an answer than I had been the day before, which was Monday. I'm going to skip over Wednesday and Thursday, which were so much like the first part of the week that there wouldn't be any point in discussing them. Friday was different, but not in the sense that I had anything figured out, so I'm going to jump ahead to Sunday. I don't like Sundays, but I think the reasons for that go back to childhood, where I was forced to sit at the table all day and eat sauerkraut and red cabbages without anything to drink. I hate short pants, too, but that doesn't really have anything to do with my story.
As it turns out, there were five or six drops of irony in the feeling that something was missing, because the missing thing was a feeling, so I wasn't feeling something so much as I wasn't feeling it, if you see what I mean. The gradual tapering of head pain at the end of a cluster-headache cycle means that I haven't been entirely pain-free since July—that is, until this past week. It's a strange sensation, this nothingness between my ears. I'm not sure what to do with it.
Since you're sitting there wondering what happened to Saturday, I may as well come out and admit that I have no memory of anything that happened after foolishly downloading a certain ballad, and even more foolishly, listening to it . . .
. . . before bursting into tears. Music is funny that way.