Scaredy Cat

Even with the intention of sleeping in until at least noon—despite never having slept that late in my life—once seven am rolls around, my eyes feel like they’re being pried open and held there by some masochistic impulse in my brain.

“All I want to do is be lazy,” I grumble, but I’ve already thrown my feet over the side of the bed, and my heels are pressed to the faux-hardwood floor beside it. My toes curl against the hard, slick surface, and I reach up to run my fingers through my thick, auburn hair. God, I'm exhausted.

For a few seconds, I glare at my computer and my charging, color-changing headphones that pulse dimly in the early morning light.

I could be productive now, write my article on Mill House, and take a break for a few hours before diving into admin work.