Based, unfortunately, on a true story.
7:30 a.m.: You wake up with just enough time to get to class, that is, if you can turn this stupid light on. A blackout? Really? Fine, fine, you’ll get ready in the dark. And bread untoasted tastes just as good, right? Even though it is the end slice and you ran out of peanut butter yesterday.
7:35 a.m.: Is bread supposed to have this white stuff on it … ? No? No. You’ll go grocery shopping tonight, you swear it.
10:30 a.m.: You return to your apartment from class. The power is still out. But how can it be? You almost break your neck tripping over the laundry basket in the middle of your living room as you go draw up the blinds. Sunlight hasn’t touched your floor since August. The laundry basket’s been there since November. What are you going to eat for lunch, you wonder.
11 a.m.: You do your homework by the window like a Victorian scholar. Come to think of it, though, Victorians mustn’t have been in the sun very much, or they wouldn’t have been so pale. See, you’re not unhealthy, you’re just subscribing to a lifestyle from a different time period! Take that, Mom!
11:30 a.m.: You neck is staring to hurt. You’re sitting on the window sill, your face hovering above your knees, because your desk is way in the corner and there isn’t any sunlight there. In your defense, it seemed very feng shui when you first put it there. Also, what’s going on with the lights?
Noon: They’ve cut your power! Them bastards. $90 outstanding charges? $50 reconnection fee? What are you, Bill Gates? Fine! Fine. You’re cool. You’ll pay the $140, because you feel like taking a shower and showering in the dark is risky business. But that’s the only reason you’re giving in to these capitalist bastards. Once you get your college degree, though, you’re taking them down!
12:30 p.m. The power is back on, thank God. The pain in your neck hasn’t gone away, though. In fact, it’s gotten quite bad. Is this ibuprofen? No, it’s a mint. Why are there mints in your pill bottle?
1 p.m.: You make an omelet.
1:30 p.m.: Taking a shower now doesn’t seem very probable, because you’ve ran out of fresh clothes. In fact, the chair you pile your dirty laundry on has started to look like another person. A roommate! If only it would split the rent. Anyway, you need these clothes nice and done. This washing machine can take two loads, right?
2:00 p.m.: WHY IS THE WASHING MACHINE SCREAMING?
2:30 p.m.: You’re late for your afternoon class, but f*** that. You just shut off the fire alarm, the fuse box switch for the washing machine, and the calm collected voice in the back of your head that keeps you together. The super said he’ll come look at the washing machine on Monday. Monday! And is it your imagination, or is the burnt-smelling air making you itch?
3 p.m.: You’re in class, finally. You don’t really understand what’s going on, but you know Dan, and he always knows what’s up. You just hope he doesn’t still hate you from that time you talked about his ugly presentation behind his back and, unfortunately, in front of his face.
4:30 p.m.: You’re in your bathroom, hand-washing your clothes in big murky buckets. You’re subscribing to a lifestyle from a different time period, all right. It’s just not of a Victorian scholar. It’s of a medieval washerwoman.
6 p.m.: You’re at the supermarket, dutifully adulting. It has been a hard and long day, but that’s no reason to feel defeated, right? Look, you even bought a vegetable!
7 p.m.: Oh, who are you kidding — you’re not going to cook. The vegetable from last week has withered, intact, in the fridge. You deserve a pizza. A big, garlic-bread-crusted, cheesy, greasy pizza.
9 p.m.: Oh, hi, Mom! I’m just doing homework. No, it’s not hard. School’s actually really easy. Yeah, it’s all going really well. Yeah, I had dinner. It’s, um, artisanal bread with grilled chicken and a side of … cheese. Anyway, how’s it going back home?
