What time is it? Quarantime!

by Hana

She doesn’t recall pressing the snooze button 15 times, but she’s overslept by an hour. 

She unlocks her phone, eyes squinting at the harsh overload of data she convinces herself energizes her brain. She scrolls through an endless algorithm of colors and shapes and text, dismissing everything but still searching for something.

Before she knows it it’s 11am. She really needs to get out of bed now, if she wants to get any work done today.

She leaves her socials, and goes to her downloaded list of songs, trying to find the perfect beat to get ready to.

11:08 and she’s decided on a chill, electronic beat with soft croons about missing someone so bad, and trudges to the bathroom. Her bones crackle when she moves, she pretends she hears nothing.

As she brushes her teeth, she notices how greasy her hair is. It’s been a while since the last wash…but the thought of stepping into the shower cubicle and having to spend an extra 5 or so minutes in the bathroom sounds like too much work. She tells herself she’ll make some coffee, then shower.

Her face is greasy and she’s pretty sure that’s a zit…she really should wash her face. After some coffee.

45 minutes later she’s sprawled on the couch with a mug of cold coffee in one hand and her phone in the other, watching another girl on the screen making breakfast.

Wow, wish I had time to do all that, she muses.

Another hour goes by, she’s beginning to detect hints of body odor. Okay, okay, now she really needs to shower.

Once she hops in, she doesn’t leave for a while. She stands motionless under near scalding water, willing the laziness in her bones to rise off her body like steam.

Once she’s sure she’s wasted enough water to last a small village, she does a face mask. Leave on for 20 minutes.

She sits in her towel on the bed even long after the mask has dried.

Getting dressed is an effort. She puts one leg through her leggings, and without even pulling the fabric past her knee, she sinks to the ground, defeated. She stays that way, unmoving, with her leggings wrapped around one ankle and the rest of her body unclothed.

When she finally does get her clothes on, she’s starving. Her stomach growls. This is an inconvenience, because cooking will take half an hour and she could be getting a half hour head start on writing, never mind the three or more hours she spent dragging out her late morning routine.

It’s sunset by the time she’s barely made a dent in her work.

She buries her face in her palms. Ugh, why is there so much to do!

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