Sunday, September 12, 2010

The Prelude to a Midafternoon Nap

No matter how much you love the song, you’re already sick of it after hearing it blaring into your ears every morning. You tell yourself to change the alarm to something less memorable, but you will inevitably forget. Despite your propensity for disorder, breakfast is always routine. You horribly botch the English muffins, cutting one side too thin, but you have learned to love the taste of crunchy bread. Someone used all of the butter, yet you still scrape away at the container’s fat laden edges. You never flinch when you realize that your day has no plans, none whatsoever.

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