After falling asleep in the middle of watching Monk, I woke only to stumble out of my bedroom attempting to let in as little light needed from the outside world so that I coud make my way to the kitchen. There I grabbed one of the cider donuts I had purchased during the day and I ate it on the way back to my bed.
It was 7:15 pm. I had fallen asleep at 5pm. After my 8 hour day, my first instinct had been to curl up in bed and, over the course of checking my email, my blogstats, and applying for a new job, take off my clothes. By the time my potentially valuable doings on my computer devolved into watching whatever shit I could find on hulu I was under the blankets in my last article of clothing. It was only inevitable. I had been wanting to make a nice dinner for myself since I had no plans and didn’t have to go to bed early so that I could again awaken at 6:15 to enter a freezer and juggle dead chickens, my frozen fingers that have broken off, and my dignity. But when I awoke, face to face with the flashing options of related videos and the option to watch the ocd detective again, a donut seemed like the only thing that would fulfill my cravings.
Each day I try to postpone looking at the clock because once I start looking at the clock, I start looking every 10 minutes demanding to know why it is not 3pm yet. My first day I didn’t look at the clock until 2 hours after noon. Today I looked at the clock at 2 hours after I entered the shitty supermarket that I work at. Yesterday I had to do my laundry because I was on my last pair of everything. Today I’ve already decided it’s too late to take that pile of dirty cotton, polyester, and nylon down to the end of the block.
My two hour nap is still not enough for me to feel refreshed because attempting to explain to a 51 year old deli clerk why his assumption that he has an unhealthy relationship with his girlfriend because he has had an argument with her every day for the past three years and he believes he must buy her things in order for her to stay with him while grabbing chickens by the inside of their ribcage so that I can season them with a spice masquerading as something besides salt by being red is draining. I’ll be asleep by 9pm, and I guarantee that that sleep will last half of the 24 hour day-cycle.
I found a to-do list on one of the receipts in my wallet (I keep all receipts, not for some weird financial voyeurism, but rather for scrap paper when I’m anywhere) . My to-do list read:
Finish tutor application
The corner of my room is piled high with clothes that are attracting flies, the rest of my room is scattered with the dishes of my past three days, the sink is piled too high with cups and bowls for me to fill up a new cup with water, I just scratched myself by making a fist, and it was because of my frustration by seeing that the google tab behind the one that is open for me to write this nostalgic diatribe of laziness is one titled “Tutoring Application.”
I’m gonna go eat my second donut and take a nap.