A Day in The Life of Me · 7:29pm Jan 25th, 2016
Attention: Sections of this blog may be dramatized for your entertainment.
Please proceed with caution and an ability to laugh at the mundane.
~The Beginning~
In my life there are three parts to waking up. An alarm clock blaring for half an hour, wishing I were still asleep, and slapping myself across the face. I try to follow these steps to the best of my ability every morning, but in winter, it's an uphill battle with an extra step; lying to myself that it won't be cold when I get up. This morning was no exception.
The snow outside is bright and blinding, like the sun, and my curtains are not helping. Covers are thrown off, and I'm trying not to shiver. I have always claimed to prefer the cold over the heat. For an ample distraction, my mind turns to the foggiest memories of the dream I had last night. Something about visiting my old high school and pretending to be a student there. It ended with me running for my life. They always end with me running. Not sure what that says about my person.
Into the bathroom and I'm staring at the broken shell of a man in the glass. My eyes are like elephant skin, but the color of beets; a tragic result of dry sensitive skin. Below that, the stubble over my face has successfully merged with the goatee in a natural coat of warmth. My hair is more alive than I am, and I couldn't care less. I've become used to it, my image.
I throw water over it, blinking the drops away. I'm still not fully awake.
Stumbling back into my room, I scrounge about the closet for the most comfortable entire I can find. I settle on sweat, both of the shirt and pants verity. My phone and tablet are then retrieved from my desk with the personality of a nightstand. Papers are scattered everywhere; among them, bookmarks and pencils lie about, trying to hide. I've been working on a novel, one I never would have dreamed of writing only a year ago. My hands find a notebook with some empty pages still left inside, and pluck a pencil from beside it. My stomach rumbles some curses at me. It's time to go downstairs.
Below, the main floor is bestowed with morning glory. The curtains have been thrown back by other occupants long gone, shimmering waves of light falling over every room. My shadow wades through it, fouling the air with my presence.
The kitchen, my favorite place in the house. The island counter holds my tablet as I set it to serenade me with some random indie mix on YouTube. The mail is scattered next to it. I'll go through it some day.
A pan, a bowl, and spatula walk into a bar... to make pancakes. The stove is set to four, the number is meaningless, but it's the right one. A box of pancake mix and some water, the bachelor's freeway to a sophisticated looking breakfast. The ingredients, aforementioned, and some blueberries are stirred in the bowl while I gaze out the window. Snow, while annoying to be in, is still beautiful to look at. Though, I would be staring out that window regardless of the weather. Nature is inspiring, so they say.
Two pancake-sized circles are poured onto the pan. By the end of the procedure they will be blobs of indiscernible origin. The heat from the light in the exhaust fan is warm and feels good against my forehead. I stay like this, playing a game of, "will I burn the pancakes?" which is usually followed by the world's worst pancake flipper doing a juggling act. I absently note that if I ever have kids, this will be one of many things they make fun of me for.
The surviving scraps from the stove are put on a plate, and served with milk, syrup, and a fork. The bay window is where I go to write, and sometimes to eat. It's where I go today. Every author should have a bay window.
I eat and listen to the music, staring out the glass. When I am finished, the notebook and pencil are retrieved from earlier. I find a comfortable position, which will change as I write. Each one would feel at home in a yoga magazine. If they made bay windows for tall people, I would not have to.
My story is going to be longer than I intended. The pages in the notebook are falling out, filled with scribbled words from previous mornings; somewhere around 18,000 and it's only just beginning. I'm going to need editors soon. I wonder if they will be hard to find. I wonder if anyone will read it. I know how to write. I tell a good story, but I don't know if it will shine. I want it to shine.
I'm staring outside again. I can still smell the pancakes. There's probably some syrup in my beard. It's strange to think that I'm writing fanfiction, but I know I'm going to make it the best it can be. It's what I do.