Saturday: I sleep for seven restful hours and am gently awakened by the warmth of the rising sun. The world is full of promise.
Sunday: I sleep for thirteen REM-less hours and jolt awake to my air raid siren alarm. Nothing to do but hunker down and brace for Monday, because the weekend is basically over, as is life itself.
Saturday: I take a chance on a new brunch spot, and love my Persian-inspired date and saffron scramble.
Sunday: Who can think about food at a time like this? Breakfast is stale toast. The end pieces. The mold-free bits.
Saturday: Hopefully, I’m not getting a cold, so I can make Jamie’s surprise party.
Sunday: Hopefully, I’m getting Ebola, so I can miss work.
Saturday: I visit two museum exhibits, switch the laundry, and then pop over to Jess and Alex’s house to babysit at the last minute. I have endless energy for my beloved community.
Sunday: I tell my aid worker friend that I can’t meet for coffee during her visit from Haiti, because I am “swamped” (i.e., folding laundry).
Saturday: My partner and I take a leisurely stroll to the park, taking in the fresh air, warm sun, and melodious urban soundscape.
Sunday: I learn the weather is sunny from the backdrop of an Instagram Live by a local dachshund.
Saturday: I sneak in a nine-mile trail run. Invigorating!
Sunday: I get forty-five total steps and retrieve my iPad from upstairs by hiring someone on TaskRabbit.
Saturday: I volunteer at the local soup kitchen for a few hours. The world has its problems, but I am doing my part.
Sunday: I upvote a Reddit thread on r/Dystopia about why anyone born after 2016 should bring their parents before the International Criminal Court.
Saturday: I transition seamlessly from Whole Foods to an upscale taco restaurant, dressed in dark jeans, a tailored shirt, and stylish leather sneakers.
Sunday: While reading reviews for a Nintendo Switch game that I already own, I realize my pocket has a hole in it when a Cheez-It falls out the leg of my basketball shorts.
Saturday: I notice the hustle and bustle outside my car window and whisper, “Wow, humanity.”
Sunday: I notice the hustle and bustle outside my basement window and mutter, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Saturday: I spend hours absorbed in reading The Beautiful Struggle. There’s something so soothing about a physical book.
Sunday: I set a new record with eighteen hours of screen time, six hours snoozing work emails, six hours reading about late-stage capitalism on r/Dystopia, and six hours anxiously checking my screen time.
Saturday: I realize I’ve been so active that I haven’t felt anxious all day. I won’t have much to talk about in therapy this week.
Sunday: I notice a calendar entry for Monday’s staff meeting, rocketing my heart rate to 220 beats per minute. I text my therapist while shouting, “Hey, Siri, is Lexapro safe to freebase?”
Saturday: I get surprisingly giggly after two beers with friends. Wow, 9 percent alcohol! I’ll be a bit groggy tomorrow, but c’est la vie.
Sunday: I couldn’t possibly meet for drinks. On a Sunday? Are you out of your mind? If I am 1 percent off my game at work tomorrow, I will be fired, just in time for the looming recession. Penniless, I will move into my 2015 Kia Rio, prompting my partner to dump me and write a bestselling memoir called No Dead Weight: Thriving Alone. Without health insurance, as climate change worsens vector-borne disease spread, I will die alone of West Nile virus.
Saturday: Knowing that I have tomorrow off, I dream of flying blissfully over a field of tulips as each of my dearest friends tells me about their first kiss.
Sunday: Knowing Monday is next, I toss and turn until 3:41 a.m. I dream of being chased through a filthy meatpacking plant by a slimy, sickle-wielding creature with the tail of Godzilla, the tentacles of Cthulhu, and the politics of Elon Musk.
Saturday: I remember it’s a three-day weekend. Great!
Sunday: I remember it’s a three-day weekend. Great.