waxing nonsensical

I've been in hiding. A rabbit who digs a hole only to emerge among foxes. I have emails in the hundreds I've read and considered answering, texts sitting hopelessly, all demanding explanation. 
'Where are you?'
'What are you doing?'
I feel trapped by a need to explain and the explanation itself. Yet, instead of addressing basic human interaction, I resume focus on churning out words that require constant replacement and hoping someone will simply approach me without having to ask.

I've been muted. In a most cruel, Pavlovian way my throat's sharp rejection of utterance forces an opt for silence over commentary. Restraint over laughter. Although the torturous swallowing has come and gone with each cycle, I remain conditioned. Instead of projecting, I whisper. I don't know if this will subside. The recommended baking soda cure-all only provides temporary relief. I'd rather not chance it.

I'm bald and just nearing the point of washing my wig to make myself presentable to the public. or I could just stay hidden.

I'm in my own little bubble concentrated around my room and the hours most mortals take rest. I'm nocturnal now. 

Finals have provided a new impetus for hibernation and a reason to disregard hygiene. My android-like attachment (Central venous catheter), with its ever-pressing neediness and demands to be covered with skin ripping plastic every shower made cleansing seem much less necessary. Why change pillowcases I'm only going to cough into again the next night?

My room is a collection of dust bunnies. The ones that hop from one surface to the next, fearing Lysol. Apparently ceiling fans are meant to interrupt their stranglehold on my living space - I discovered this magic a bit late into my allergy attack. 

I'm not sure if this is melodramatic enough.