The Little Martian watches as a wayward tear makes its salty descent into his treacle-sweet mocha on a drowsy Monday morning.
“It’s like a waterfall. An endless waterfall of gooey emotion. Gushing like lava through an emo volcano. Lava, god, I’d kill for a molten lava cake right now,” the little martian rambles, and scrambles! His bleary eyes tearing and then subsiding like indecisive clouds in a Dehradun monsoon.
“What’s up, LM?” I ask finally, breaking through the haze of his melodrama.
“I’m just a little all over the place today,” he says, a sniffle snorting through his little green nose.
“I feel like I’m up and down and everywhere and nowhere. Little babies make me misty and the crushing loneliness of adulthood makes me wispy! I want chocolate with green chilies and coffee with no caffeine… I want a hug, but I’ll kill anyone who touches me right now. What is happening?” raps the little martian, barely pausing to take a breath.
“It sounds like you’re PMSing, LM,” I tell him gently.
“PMS?” he whispers, eyes wide, mouth agape.
“Profound Martian Syndrome,” I respond, with a snort.
The little martian hops over my sarcastic jibe like it’s a stray pebble in a murky pond and looks out and over my shoulder onto the bright, cloudless sky instead.
“Indeed,” he mutters, as he twirls his imaginary goatee.
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