It’s simple really. First, you wake up.
There’s a sound coming from outside your window that you can only equate to a violent crumpling of paper, loud enough to echo down the entire walkway. But why is someone violently crumpling paper, and why outside your bedroom window at nine o’clock in the morning? You leap out of bed and go to the window, determined to identify the source, silence it, and go back to bed. But in your addled state you’ve forgotten that you can’t see the walkway from your window and you really don’t care enough to go downstairs and look. And now that you’re up, you might as well stay up. First step complete.
Next, you take a shower. You don’t really want to because you don’t feel like getting wet and then having to get dry again, nor do you feel like standing up for another second (after being on your feet for twelve hours yesterday). But you do, because what else is there to do at nine in the morning on a Saturday? Plus, it’ll help wake you up.
It doesn’t, and now you can’t lay back down because your hair is wet and cold. So you walk into the living room and attempt to locate your rabbit. He isn’t under the cabinets or behind the chair in the corner. He isn’t in the wooden hutch placed on the section of carpet he likes to rip from the ground. He isn’t in his cage (why would he be?) and he isn’t eating the food set out on the placemat just outside it. There he is under the table, watching you, waiting for you to find him.
You sit at the table and open your computer, because now it’s ten o’clock and that seems like just the thing to do. Your rabbit nudges your foot until you lift it and then burrows his head underneath (because if it’s there it might as well be petting him). You stroke his head and behind his neck while you open a new page and start a post about yesterday. About all of the sights and sounds and feelings. But none of these things seem willing to be put into words. You write a few disconnected sentences and stare at them until the letters start to blur. You copy and paste them into a word document because you think maybe you’ll have more luck over there. You don’t. A sudden stabbing pain in your head has you closing the computer and abandoning your stubborn ideas.
You go over to the couch and lay on your wet hair. It’s cold against your scalp and neck and you shiver, grabbing a blanket from under the coffee table. You start coughing because of the tufts of shed fur that you displaced when you lay down. You wait for them to settle. You begin to wheeze and choke and gag. You stare at your container of allergy pills on the side table across the room and try in vain to pull them toward you with your eyes. You give up, rolling to your feet to retrieve the container, turning on the automated vacuum cleaner on your way back to the couch. It’s 11 o’clock and cleaning seems like a good idea.
The rabbit, as always, is lured out of his hiding spot, intrigued by the robotic movements and sounds; the vacuum, as always, is confounded by the one mass of fur that won’t stay still long enough for it to clean. You watch the vacuum cleaner and the rabbit chase each other around the room until the former gets caught on a throw rug and disables itself and the latter resumes his tongue bath under the dining table.
It’s almost noon. You lay in the silence and stillness, your wet hair seeping into the couch pillow, and think about all of things you aren’t going to do today.
And that is how you waste an entire morning.