Three more until the weekend.
The alarm sound is a harp.
Each morning like a drill to the side of my head.
I don’t really have much to achieve by picking my body off the mattress.
But then again, I won’t really achieve much more by remaining.
I readjust myself once, twice for good luck.
I toss the sheets off.
The jittered cold hits my face.
I pull the sheets back on.
That startling warmth makes my wriggle my feet with pleasure.
But again, what am I achieving?
I toss the sheets off for a second time and leap out of bed, beating the striking cold as I race downstairs.
The bathroom is just as it was yesterday.
I rush into the shower without an ounce of indecision.
The very same warmth of my bed spouts out of the shower head.
‘Come at me day!’ I yell with delight.
Three minutes later and I waddle out of the shower.
The greatest pleasure of my day has possibly passed.
Today was another day.
Why do I want this again?
Fill water to the line marked on the cup.
There are two lines.
My head is racing with the possibilities of a wasted Mac and cheese.
I don’t even like Mac and cheese.
I take the first option.
I stir hard and fast.
It splatters everywhere, a mark of a brilliant chef.
I begin talking to myself as if I’m a food critic.
This gets me nowhere.
I imagine being in the kitchen of Vue de Monde or a Paris Wine Bar.
Everyone is complimenting me on my new dish; rigatoni, kangaroo steak, leeks and wild potato.
I look back at my cup.
Still Mac and cheese.
The microwave transforms it into a mushy mango sorbet type.
I can’t look at my work anymore.
I feel guilty, a gritty criminal of the kitchen.