Written by Rachelle Hernandez. Graphic by Ananya Panchal.
Today is the day. Wake up early. Make your bed. Drink some water. Eat a healthy breakfast. Go to class. Make a friend in class. Remember to talk to the friend you made in class. Call your mother. Call your friends back home. Go to the gym. Write a story. Finish a sketch. Start another sketch. Remember to eat lunch, no, not the Hot Pockets, you promised yourself you’d eat healthy today. So eat the meal you spent three hours cooking yesterday while finishing an assignment and talking to your mother, who you should probably call again because you forgot to tell her something. And don’t forget the client who called while you were in class, or the appointment at 2 p.m., or the phone call at 4 p.m., or the application that was due yesterday, or the story you have to write, write, write, because you’re a writer and, after all, writers write, even when they’re eating, even when they’re sketching, even when they’re hugging their boyfriends with one arm and holding their computers with another and answering phone calls with another and researching internships with another because you’re late. You’re always late. You’re somehow late for things that haven’t even happened yet. And wait, how many arms do you have? Grow another, and another, become an octopus. No, an octopus only has eight arms, and eight is frankly insufficient. You need 28, maybe 30, better make it 32 just in case. While you’re at it, grow another brain—actually grow 44, one for every assignment and appointment and deadline and unfinished sketch and unwritten story and unanswered message and worry and thought and feeling. Another brain can stress about whether you’re worrying too much while another gets stressed out about all the things you’ve forgotten to worry about and another reminds you that you haven’t eaten and another reminds you that you shouldn’t eat that and another reminds you that you should be enjoying your twenties because these are supposed to be the best years of your life and you’re wasting them worrying about wasting them and your mother is calling and your client is calling again and your professor is emailing and your boyfriend is talking at the kitchen table and your dinner is burning and your sketch looks horrible and your story isn’t finished and tomorrow is already here and you haven’t even finished today and don’t forget to drink water and don’t forget to eat and don’t forget to sleep and don’t forget to exercise and don’t forget to make friends and don’t forget to be a good daughter and a good girlfriend and a good student and a good writer and a good person and don’t forget to be happy and don’t forget and don’t forget and don’t forget and—
Stop.
Get in bed. Become human again. Two legs. Two arms. Two hands. One brain. One heart. Here you are.
Now, cry. Cry because you’re tired, because you haven’t had a moment to yourself, or because you have no idea what you’re crying about anymore. Let your boyfriend bring you food in bed, anything you want. Pull the blinds down. Turn the lights off. Turn the fan on. Curl yourself into a ball, arms tucked against your chest, as though you could fold yourself into something small enough to escape the world for a while. Silence.
Pick up your phone. Open TikTok. Scroll. Watch a cat fall off a stranger’s kitchen counter. Watch someone make pasta from scratch. Watch a woman explain why you should never buy the shampoo you’ve been using for six years. Open Instagram. Close Instagram. Open Instagram again. Forget why you opened Instagram in the first place. Laugh at something stupid. Cry at something even stupider.
One brain. One heart.
Scroll some more. Watch a girl your age run a marathon, while another just published her first novel, another bought a house, another got married in Italy, and another wakes up at five in the morning, drinks green juice, runs six miles, journals, meditates, makes breakfast, and somehow has time to film the entire thing. But it’s 11 in the morning, and, instead, you’re still in bed. You haven’t brushed your teeth. You briefly consider throwing your phone across the room.
Keep scrolling.
Someone says spending an entire day in bed is good for you—perfect. Someone else says it’s ruining your life—less perfect. Apparently, you’re supposed to rest, but not too much, work hard, but not too hard, enjoy your twenties, but also spend them preparing for your thirties, which you’ll probably spend preparing for your forties. Maybe you should start preparing for retirement now, add it to the list.
Your phone buzzes. Another deadline. Maybe your professor will wake up tomorrow and decide deadlines are a social construct. You can only hope.
Watch another video. You should get up. You will get up. In five minutes. After you find out whether that woman ever got her money back from the airline. You’ve already watched 14 parts of her story. It would be irresponsible to leave now. Somewhere between the cat videos and the airline scandal, your 44 brains have crawled back into bed with you.
Now put the phone down.
You’ve spent the last four hours doing absolutely nothing. Your eyes hurt, your neck has been bent at an angle that probably requires medical attention, and you’re hungry again. But getting up means actually standing up, and that sounds like an awful lot to ask of someone who’s had such a busy day doing absolutely nothing.
So stay, turn over, fix your pillow. Check the time. There’s no way it’s been that long. Maybe your phone’s broken. You could’ve finished your sketch, written that story, gone to the gym, answered your emails, maybe even solved world hunger if you’d managed your time a little better.
And now you should probably get out of bed, except you’ve been thinking about getting out of bed for so long that the thought alone is exhausting, and surely nobody expects you to get out of bed when you’re this exhausted, so another hour wouldn’t hurt—maybe two.
Your stomach growls. Your sketch is still sitting on your desk, a miserable collection of crooked lines and questionable proportions that, if you squint hard enough, might resemble the object you were supposed to draw. You consider getting up simply because it’s four in the afternoon and surely that’s what a respectable member of society would do.
Instead, call your boyfriend. Ask him to bring you the Hot Pockets. And maybe a glass of water. You have to be healthy, after all. Turn over. Pull the blankets up to your chin. Put on another video. The sketch can stay ugly for another hour. Maybe two. The world will probably survive. And if it doesn’t, well, you only have two arms.
