With an obnoxious beeping, it all begins.
Or maybe it doesn’t. I’ve been known to snooze until I have dreams about my phone attacking me in my sleep. So, naturally, I always end up rushing in the morning. Regardless of the six back-up alarms and the outfit I laid out, I’m going to be running around my apartment like a crazy person.
Just another day.
I sit up, look around, and assess my life through the messiness of this place I call home. I contemplate the subjectivity of the word home. Two minutes pass by. When I finally stand, I head towards the bathroom. Avoiding eye contact with my reflection, I quickly wash away the sleep. By the time I brush my teeth, any expectations for my appearances go from “look presentable” to “look like a person.” I direct myself to the kitchen so my stress eating can commence with the most important meal of the day.
As I make coffee, I observe the dishes, crumbs, half-eaten bags of chips and miscellaneous sticky spots on just about every available surface. I promise myself yet again that I’ll clean it when I get home. I reach into the fridge and pull out the eggs. I catch the blinking “Press Start to Continue” message on the microwave, thanks to my roommate’s negligence. Then I realize it was probably my fault. I need to stop being so hypocritical. I’ll worry about that later.
Hitting the reset button, I catch the time. I quickly put the eggs away. No time for that nonsense. I settle for a bagel. I grab a plate and plop some cream cheese on the carby delight. As I retrieve my coffee cup, I notice the water pooled around the coffee maker. I should probably move the power strip that’s partially submerged, but the impending threat of electrocution gives me such a thrill.
I bring my coffee and bagel back to my room and alternate between getting dressed and injecting caffeine into my veins, carefully bringing the mug to my lips in an attempt to delay the inevitable coffee stain that will surely plague my new (read: thrifted) shirt. I put on my watch. It’s broken but I wear it for appearances, as if timeliness were important to me.
I chug the last bit of coffee.
I over-committed. Rookie mistake. A singular drop rolls off my chin and permeates the fabric on my shirt. This is why I don’t have nice things.
I go back to the kitchen and wash out my mug. I grab the lunch I prudently packed the night before and see the microwave clock again. I run out the front door with the bagel clenched between my teeth, wallet under my armpit, and laptop bag strangling me. I fumble with my keys the entire length to my car. I open the driver side and strategically place my bag in the passenger seat while I slide in. It falls off the seat, effectively emptying the contents of my bag onto the floor. My cursing is muffled by the half chewed bagel.
Just another day.