My ideal Saturday:
Frances’s eyelids flutter open. Her dreams still caught on the hem of her pajama pants, she turns over and descends into a cloud of sleep. It’s ten in the morning when she finally decides to really, truly wake up and get out of bed.
She reaches for the laptop, her stomach grumbling in protest. It’s time to eat breakfast now, says the poor digestive organ. She then opens that familiar little icon on the desktop and begins to play. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this game, she thinks.
She realizes that yes, her digestive system is waiting for her. She scrambles down the stairs and is welcomed by a delicious scent. A wonderful, scrumptious aroma. Bacon. Who cares if she gets fat after eating it? Bacon makes horrible days bad days; bacon makes good days better days. Right?
After gobbling up the bacon, she parks in front of the laptop once again and does her own thing. Until, once again, that organ underneath her torso that contains gastric juices calls.
Frances wakes up at eight in the morning. There is no time for shenanigans. Her eyelids are drooping, but she can’t, she mustn’t, and she shan’t waste time. Her algebra problems beckon her. And after that, her meiotic and mitotic problems will take over. There is no time to waste. Time is gold. On the contrary, however, time is algebra. Time is biology.
After she finishes all that, she recalls that she still has Christmas gifts to take care of. This’ll never end, will it? Just when it does end, she remembers once again that she has another thing to do. Another quiz. It’s a Filipino quiz, meaning she can’t wing it. She can’t save it for Sunday either, because, well, let’s just say that other, more personal things demand her Sundays. Great Caesar’s ghost.