Netflix and chill and drink decaf tea, but not the kind that says “Sleepytime” because it’s only 4:40 in the afternoon. Watch Broadchurch season 3 episode 2 and promise yourself you won’t rewind it when you don’t understand what the Scottish dude is saying. Turn up the volume just enough not to annoy the neighbors. Strain to listen. Miss chunks of the dialogue. Realize it doesn’t matter. Try to remember who killed the boy in season 1. Fail to remember if the murderer was convicted in season 2. Berate yourself because you should be writing instead. Read three pages of a new book. Put it down. Continue to feel unproductive. Open the bottle of pinot you were saving for Christmas Eve. Decide you can buy a new one tomorrow.
Shiver in your lounge chair while you watch the rest of Broadchurch season 3 episode 2 because the space heater doesn’t heat your apartment quickly enough, and you’re too lazy to get a blanket. Play “crank” in Words with Friends and open a triple against the friend who beats you every time, but you continue to play against him because you’re a glutton for punishment. Fret about the giant gouge you made in your cellphone glass yesterday because you haven’t paid off half of your iPhone 7 yet. Delete your embarrassing Facebook posts from 2008 under the “On This Day” tab. Refresh your Twitter feed. Stress about nuclear war and whether or not your imbecile president is becoming a dictator. Wish Paul Ryan had food poisoning. Refresh Twitter feed again. Look at photos of the SpaceX launch. Decide it looks like a flying jellyfish. Google Elon Musk. Decide you have two years to become successful.
Facebook stalk the love of your life. Facebook stalk the other guy you wish you were fucking. Try to remember how many months it’s been since someone kissed you. Remember it’s Friday night. Google “dating apps for writers.” Find only one, and it looks janky. Think who am I kidding? Daydream about an invisible personal chef or an imaginary husband making you dinner. Realize that’s not going to happen in the next 15 minutes. Scrape yourself out of the chair to stir fry enough vegetables and cook a large enough steak to have leftovers. Pour a second glass of wine. Turn on Judd Apatow’s new standup special. Wish you had children. Google how old Judd Apatow is. Determine you have six more years to become successful. Berate yourself because that literary agent never replied to the best query you’ve ever written. Eat the whole boneless ribeye and shovel all the zucchini and mushrooms doused in butter and olive oil into your pie-hole. Top off your wine glass.
While you pee, wipe strands of hair off the floor with toilet paper. Stare at your reflection in the mirror. Determine whether it’s time to take off your make-up and put on pajamas or venture into the world and interact with people. Consider taking a hot bath and lighting multiple candles as an attempt at “self-care.” Laugh because you have yet to do that since you moved into this apartment a year ago. Shower. Remove your make-up. Put on pajamas. Brush your fine hair. Wish it was longer. Wish it was shorter. Wish you were younger. Wipe up more strands of your hair that just fell out. Berate yourself for dying it red because you already wish you were blond again, and you’ve done this before. Contemplate whether your broken scale was correct when it said you were five pounds lighter than you thought you were. Decide it was wrong. Check the clock: 7:54.
Clean the dishes. Decide it’s early enough to drink more tea. Make the kind that says “Sleepytime.” Consider taking out the trash. Don’t because it’s cold, and your wimpy California ass can’t handle 51 degrees. Light a fancy soy candle. Thank the molecules in the air you don’t have to argue with your nonexistent children about bedtime. Berate yourself for only publishing two essays this year. Remember you rewrote a whole damn book, have a craft essay coming out next month, and wrote three more essays to publish next year. Give yourself a fucking break. Pee three more times because you drank half a bottle of wine and two cups of hot tea in the last four hours. Search your own Facebook page for old photos to post to Instagram for Flashback Friday. Don’t find any you haven’t already posted. Feel pathetic. Check your fantasy hockey scores. Realize you should have started that crappy defenseman after all. Contemplate your worth as a human being. Blow out the candle because you might be allergic.
Return to your comfy chair—with a blanket this time. Wish you hadn’t watched all of Ozark season 1 already. Press play on the next episode of Broadchurch. Strain to catch all the dialogue. Miss 20%. Wonder if it’s too early to go to bed. Be grateful you have lunch plans tomorrow. Refresh your Twitter feed again. Check out who has watched your latest Instagram story and realize it’s the same 25 people as usual. Write a 900-word blog post. Contemplate whether or not to share it. Floss. Post your blog to Twitter, recognizing maybe two people will read it. Wonder how many more Friday nights you can Netflix and chill.