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.
