I know, it’s not a very original idea for a post. But I need to knock something out (as it very much were) to prove that I didn’t just stop writing altogether after jumping off a cliff in 2018 and that the ‘Rona hasn’t taken me yet.
Alarm goes off. Snooze the hell out of it. Snooze it forever. It is set for 7am purely to allow me at least an hour of glorious snoozing. Three hours of glorious snoozing if I’m not getting up early. And yes, I consider 8am to be early. Ludicrously so. Always have done.
Crunch time: Am I getting up early? If so, turn alarm off and flick through Instagram for an hour. If not, turn alarm off, go back to sleep, and trust that the sun will wake me for my hour of pre-getting-up Instagram scrolling whenever the lord sees fit. Usually that happens when the daylight is so strong it can no longer be obscured by the blackout blind. Either way, wake up relaxed. Maybe day jobs were the virus all along.
Get up, make between one and three coffees. Have a too-small bowl of cereal because I don’t want to go outside and if I have to buy cereal I will need to go outside.
Rest of morning
Write and by “write” I mean “scroll through Twitter” because being on Furlough means nothing if you can’t at least do that. Alternatively, watch Youtube videos of vloggers ten years younger than me apartment hunting in New York because that’s what I’m incredibly emotionally invested in all of a sudden. Enjoy having the free time to get suddenly and intensely invested in strange things before moving on to something else a couple of days later. Maybe day jobs were the virus all along.
Realise that I am able to cook actual meals for lunch because there is literally nobody here to stop me and I don’t have to fight forty people for the use of three underperforming microwaves in a too-small communal lunch space where somebody’s usually holding a meeting they shouldn’t be. Enjoy it. Don’t make small talk because nobody expects it.
Wash up while singing very loudly to the Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack.
3pm (because lunch can take two to three hours now on account of day jobs being the virus all along)
Actually. Do. Some. Writing. Feel a little depressed at how quick and easy it is when the floodgates eventually open. Imagine how much you could get done if I didn’t have such a busy morning schedule of GIFs, sleeping, and deciding what to add to the 30-Day Song Challenge on Instagram.
Broadway workout time. Fantasise about my new job as a chorus girl when all of this is over. After all, day jobs were the virus all along, so why on earth not?
5:20pm-7pm depending how far I fell down the Youtube workout rabbit hole
Spend at least half an hour debating whether I need to have a shower considering I didn’t sweat that much (and/or it has mostly dried) and I only had my last one a couple of days ago. Unless there were pushups. If there were pushups I will be requiring at least two showers.
Think about making dinner for an hour, and then eventually do it. Marvel at how not-stressed, not-annoyed, not-depressed I feel compared to six weeks ago. Maybe day jobs were the virus all along.
Engage in the writing-Twitter-writing-Twitter-writing spiral. Occasionally take a break for Instagram.
Wonder what life would be like if this wasn’t when I was most inclined to knuckle down and properly write. OH WAIT IT DOESN’T MATTER ANYMORE BECAUSE WHAT COUNTS AS AN ACCEPTABLE SCHEDULE IS NO LONGER CONTROLLED BY THE MAN.
Drift off to sleep easier than I have for months without even dreading the alarm going off the next morning. No idea why.