As all of you know--because you willingly read stuff on the Internet that is copying the stuff I write on the Internet some 2 weeks later, since timelines aren't important--The New York Times recently starting a weekly series wherein they invite famous and/or accomplished men and women about town to write a short, to the point article about what it is that they do on their average Sunday. And, for whatever reason, the NYT won't print the Sunday account I sent them in spite of me perfectly meeting their profile, so I decided to publish it here. It is not short. It is not to the point. It is awesome.
So, without further ado, here is my account of my average Sunday. Read. Learn. Enjoy. Feel like a piece of fecal matter in comparison.
I wake up face down in my bed, sometime between 7-8 A.M., depending on how late I stayed out and how anxious my body is to get rid of the Taco Bell Crunch Wrap Supremes I made my Uber drive procure for me some 5 hours earlier. The first thing I do is look to my right. If my girlfriend, Kristin, is lying there, then there’s a chance that I did nothing to upset her. If she is not, then there are several possibilities I have to account for: 1-She’s mad at me because I got very intoxicated and spilled chili all over the Henley I just recently bought at Target (because who doesn’t make a can of chili when they get home at 2 AM to put on their Crunch Wrap Supremes?); 2-She is out of town, doing business things that are way above my head, giving me 4-6 hours to clean the chili out of our sheets before she gets home; 3-She is already off running or doing yoga or watching the Sunday version of The Today Show without committing suicide like some sort of evil sorcerer; 4-She is in fact an evil sorcerer, meaning I was therefore tricked by the woman who brought John Snow back to life to pay $447.50/month for a one-bedroom apartment with a family of possums living under its back porch.
After a trip to the bathroom to, uh, do stuff (urine, fecal matter, vomit, and blood are all possibilities here people), I return to bed some 34 minutes later. If Kristin is still there, I try not to wake her up in order to preserve my momentum of not being a total boner. If she’s not I try to ignore her. For one thing I am still too groggy to have an intelligible conversation. For another, my breath smells as if I just swallowed between 6 and 114 Tic Tac’s that are blatantly flavored like Forrest Whitaker’s butt crack. Sometimes I will pass the bag of left over Crunch Wrap Supremes on my way back to the bedroom and will obviously try to eat 2 or 6 of them before I get back into bed. Sometimes, if Kristin is not in bed, then the bag of Crunch Wrap Supremes has taken her place and I will pound a few under the covers before washing them down with ½ a bottle of Advil to take the edge off.
Later in the morning, usually around 10-11, I wake up again, this time for good in the sense that I will not return to my bed, and, by this point, I don’t really feel that bad. My head isn’t pounding. My digestive system isn’t on strike. On occasion I can make my legs stop shaking for long enough to walk without collapsing onto the floor and living out my life forever unnoticed on the 1 foot wide strip of hardwood between my mattress and my bedroom wall. Also, by this point Kristin is not in bed. There’s a good chance she has already gone for a run or crushed some headstands in yoga class. In contrast, there’s a good chance that I just sweated through my Old Gregg t-shirt during the 8-foot walk I still have not completed. This proves it: Kristin is the type of person who would call Ralph Fiennes “Voldemort” to his face. I am the kind of person who would never be in front of Ralph Fiennes face because British people intimidate me.
I walk into our living room and approach Kristin cautiously, struggling internally to figure out whether or not I did something to piss her off last night. I begin to replay my memory of the night before in my head. Were tense words exchanged at the bar? Did she leave me in the Uber (pre Taco Bell run) because I was trying to figure out whether or not our driver was free for a theoretical BBQ I was throwing next Labor Day Weekend? How bad was I snoring last night? Would the average narcoleptic person have been able to fall asleep while listening to the freight train that was laying next to them?
I begin to brainstorm opening lines that can get me out in front of this situation. I’m sorry. I love you. Bad Boys II is currently playing on TBS but I would rather talk to you then watch it because that’s how much you mean to me. We lock eyes. My brain churns. I open my mouth and begin releasing words. “Hey,” I say, before looking at the ground sheepishly. She stares at me blankly. Nice job Zach.
Once I have discovered that Kristin is pissed at me for doing 2.5 burpees in a bar before hitting my head on the ground and not moving for 8 minutes at about 12:48 this morning, and Kristin has realized that she is dating a child stuck in the most inalterable body switch comedy ever, we go to brunch, hopefully at a place that will put Slim Jims in my Bloody Mary because they know that I am in constant need of a little excitement. I will usually order biscuits and gravy or literally any other dish on the menu that includes gravy. Unless we go to the Cheesecake Factory, something we did a few Sundays ago because my mom gave me a $25 gift card she refused to use, due to her opinion that “chain restaurants are how people get the Zika virus.” The Cheesecake Factory doesn’t have gravy. My mother also greatly overestimates how many Cheesecake Factory franchises are located in Brazil. Bummer. Bummer on both accounts.
After brunch, I like to take a nap, the longer the better. This is a necessity because by about 1 P.M. my hangover really starts to hit me and begins convincing my brain that I am dying. It is the exact contrast of how I felt some 2 hours earlier. My head hurts. My tummy is more rambunctious than a child whose parents believe that ADD medicine suppresses their creativity, and not, you know, their inability to read. Lately my throat has begun to hurt, making it difficult for me to swallow. There is an obvious joke about swallowing and throats that I could make here, but I honestly can’t figure out what it is (somebody hit me at email@example.com if you are in a position to help me out).
While I sit in my chair, turn on some Netflix, cover myself in a blanket and try not to shake uncontrollably, Kristin will usually look at me and say something along the lines of “really? You’re going to just sleep all day?” I pray that the answer to this query is yes. If Kristin convinces me that the answer is no, and we should, say, go grocery shopping, then sooner or later I am going to lay on the ground of said grocery store, convinced that I am choking to death and suffering from a ruptured appendix at the same time. This—I have discovered—is not the best way to make friends at the deli counter, in case you were wondering.
At nighttime, we will eat dinner, hopefully pizza or barely cooked ground beef, something that will really pack my stomach and make me feel alive again. After dinner, Kristin likes to watch Game of Thrones on the HBO machine, which we are forced to start a few minutes late due to our watching it on Apple TV using my parent’s cable login and not on our actual television since I am too poor to pay $50/month for HGTV. Right now I have my parent’s willingness to pay for cable to thank for my ability to stream high quality shows. Hopefully, by the time they die, I will have children old enough to pay for their own cable subscriptions and again allow me to watch Project Runway without paying a dime of my own, hardish earned cash. This is why I don’t object when people say millennial are lazy and entitled. Because I am legitimately planning on having children just for the MTV 2 access.
At around 10 P.M., we will move back into our bed, hopefully without noticeably chili stains on the sheets, and get ready to fall asleep. Within a half hour Kristin will be zonked out. I, on the other hand, will spend much of the night staring out the window and hoping that the Uber driver I stiffed on those Crunch Wrap Supremes is coming to get his revenge.
I will do anything to avoid a Monday. Even get murdered.