washing machine syndrome

I desperately need a window sill whereby I can sit and watch the world washed by the rain. Preferably, there's lace curtains that can half conceal my physique and perfect my disguise-slash-pretense as a carefree observer. There should also be soft cotton cushions for me to rest my bottoms. That'd make an ideal escapade.
I feel like I'm being locked up in a washing machine and the perpetrator has pressed the 'Spin' button and the timer is set to be 'Forever'. This washing machine syndrome is very paradoxical. I could be in it and let it takes my body and soul for a ride that makes the outside world look so dizzi-fying, yet...yet within I could sometimes feel a certain calm and serenity. Of course, there're also the times when the rides are too nauseous to bear, times when I wholeheartedly wanted to get out but simply can't. That's right, I'm stuck.
I'm crazy. A girl who's living in a washing machine spells trouble. A girl who doesn't know when she will be released from the reign of the machine is petrified. A girl who has no control of the machine is helpless. A girl who sees the world behind the washing machine is simply afraid of it.