"Set 7 alarms and snoozed all of them"
6:00. 6:09. 6:18. 6:27. Each one a broken promise. Each one a chance you declined.
The Catalog · All sins
The sins no one else did to you because you did them yourself. Snoozed alarms, abandoned resolutions and the purchase of a gym membership as a personality.
6:00. 6:09. 6:18. 6:27. Each one a broken promise. Each one a chance you declined.
Chapter 1 introduced the problem. Chapter 2 was the solution. You will never know the solution.
Monday came. Monday left. Monday came back again. Monday has started to feel mocked.
The gym did not fail you. The 5am alarm did not fail you. You failed each other, mutually.
The act of writing it felt like doing it. The list disagrees, somewhere.
The phone provided 900 distressing items in a row and you asked it for more. The mystery of the sleeplessness remains.
A classic. The original self-betrayal. Repeated daily. Recognized by everyone except the person saying it.
The headache had a perfectly reasonable cause. WebMD had a different theory. You believed WebMD.
The phone gave you the procrastination. The deadline gave you the panic. You provided the setting.
"I'll get around to it." The invoices did not share your optimism.
The task asked nothing unreasonable. You simply could not face it until circumstances forced your hand.
The script was perfect. The timing was never right. The issue remains unresolved. The rehearsal was the only performance.
The video was instructional. It instructed you that cooking is complex. You processed this and called DoorDash. The video achieved the opposite of its intention.
You did not remember it. Nobody does. That is why notes exist. The notes were right there.
January has twelve entries. February has seven. There is a blank sticker on March that was meant to motivate you. It did not.
You came to make amends. By the end, they were reassuring you. The original issue was never addressed. A new issue was created.
She looked at your gums, then at you, and both of you agreed to keep going with the appointment.
Once, in the morning, for nine seconds, mostly in the dark. "Twice" is a rounding error you have chosen to believe in.
The receptionist said "it's been a while" with the warmth of a parole officer. She was being kind.
Every crunch was a small deposit toward a future crown. The crown will cost more than the drink did.
The dentist's voice was still in the room. The wrapper was already open.
You wore them for the full 30 minutes, lips parted like a haunted mannequin. The smile is now two shades brighter and exactly as noticed.
You said "it's fine" through cotton and a tiny mirror. The tooth filed a rebuttal.
The scissors were eleven feet away. Your incisors were right there, unpaid and unprepared.
The bottle said "finish the course." You treated it as a suggestion from a bottle.
They were asking a real question about a real prescription. You were holding a single greeting card.
In case of what, you have never specified. The ibuprofen is from 2019 and has become more of a keepsake.
Your prescription is still at the counter, holding your name like a sad little sign at an airport.
The new you was supposed to start the day you bought them. The seal is intact, and so is the old you.
She asked a screening question and you gave a press release. She has heard "socially" before. It was not true then either.
You were fine until you stood up.
The roster has not been opened since week one. The confidence remains.
The shirt has not lost since October. The shirt has not been laundered since October.
The cushion was empty. The result followed.
Loyalty was suspended for one late score.
The phrase aged badly. It was retired without ceremony.