A tragicomedy of modern life, measured in forgotten tasks and misplaced cutlery

6:42 AM

Wake up. Not by alarm. By dread. The kind that leaks in from the corner of the ceiling and sits on your chest like a cat that knows too much. Open my eyes. Immediately think: Did I send that email to Singh last night or just dream I sent it?

I check my phone. No email. Also no dreams. The screen is aggressively blank.

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Well.

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Now the stomach thing starts. Not pain. Just that hollow you-forgot-something-you’ll-never-remember balloon that inflates behind your ribs. Regret hasn't arrived yet, but she’s circling the block in a used Honda.

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7:14 AM

Stand in the shower and argue with an invisible version of Subramaniam from high school, who once told me I was “pretty chill for someone with nervous eyebrows.” This was fifteen years ago. He’s now a dentist, probably with a canoe.

Suddenly remember I have a dentist appointment next week. And I haven’t flossed since the last time I lied to a dentist about flossing.

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New guest unlocked: Premature Dental Shame.

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7:46 AM

Breakfast. Poured the cereal. Went to grab a spoon. All of them were either weird or accusing. The one I usually use? Gone. Probably hiding. But where’s my spoon? The other spoons all feel wrong. One is too round. One has a sharp edge from the garbage disposal incident of 2021. One is suspiciously wet, but I didn’t run the dishwasher. I stare at it for 37 seconds and decide it might be a ghost.

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Opt for a fork. Eat with a fork. Feel like a failure. Feel like the kind of person who uses a fork on soup. A soup-forker.

Regret peeks through the window. She’s smoking. She's wearing my old college sweatshirt and mouthing the word pathetic.

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8:23 AM

Open work laptop. Immediately forget what I opened it for. End up Googling “Is it unethical to lie about finishing an audiobook if you just skimmed the Wikipedia plot?” Accidentally open Slack.

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Notification: “Hey, can you hop on a quick call?”

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Hop is a trick word. No one hops anymore. It’s a lie. Like “quick,” or “touch base,” or “just a friendly reminder.”

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Click the link. Realize my camera is on. Realize my face is doing that thing where I look like I’m about to either sneeze or report a haunting.

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9:12 AM

Zoom call ends. I said “totally” nine times. Once in response to someone saying, “My cat died.” I think they noticed. I think they felt my false enthusiasm crawl through the screen and slap their grief.

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Make a mental note to apologize. Lose the note in a pile of other notes, one of which just says “ASK ABOUT THE BEES??” in all caps.

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Breadcrumb Memory Error #1.

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10:07 AM

Attempt to start a task. Open five tabs. Immediately forget why. End up on a YouTube video about how shoelaces work. This turns into a video about the invention of Velcro. I think I’m learning, but I’m not. I’m hiding.

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Anxiety... again. Not violently. Just shifting chairs, nudging the couch, putting the good thoughts behind a door I couldn’t open. Says nothing. Just sighs loudly and moves my confidence into the junk drawer.

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Regret is on the couch now. She found my baby pictures. She’s doing that thing where she holds them up one by one and says, “Aww, you used to have hope.”

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12:30 PM

Lunch. Took the lid off the cold pasta and ate it straight from the container, still standing by the microwave like I might need to reheat it later if I earn the right to sit. Didn’t feel like I had. Think about emailing Allison again. Think about texting her instead. Think about why I didn’t go to law school. Think about how people who went to law school are probably miserable, but also rich, but also have ulcers, but also know what to do at cocktail parties.

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Lose fork in sink. Spoon still missing. Consider eating directly from the container like a raccoon with tenure.

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1:46 PM

Try to write the thing. You know. The thing. The Big Thing. The creative thing I told my therapist I was “making time for.”

Open a document. Title it: draftdraftFINALREALfinal.docx

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Type three sentences. Delete two. Stare at the remaining one. It says, “It began in the middle.” Pretentious. Vague. Is this a novel or a ransom note?

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Breadcrumb Memory Error #2: Did I eat lunch? I did, didn't I?

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Regret says, “You used to have better ideas in the shower.” I tell her Greg was in there today. She nods. Understands.

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3:09 PM

Go outside. Sunlight immediately attacks my retinas like it knows my browser history. Try to walk it off. Overhear two teenagers saying something that sounds like a compliment but could be sarcasm.

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Replay it for twenty minutes. They might’ve said “cool shirt.” They might’ve said “school dirt.” They might not have been talking to me.

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Breadcrumb Memory Error #3: I left my water bottle on the mailbox again. A bee is drinking from it.

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Anxiety hands me a clipboard. On it, a checklist:

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Social awkwardness? (Checked)

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Environmental self-consciousness? (Checked)

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General unease about bee proximity? (Checked)

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5:17 PM

Attempt to be a Person Who Cooks. Start chopping an onion. Cry, but not from the onion. From a flashback of a time I told someone I “loved The Smiths” even though I only knew two songs.

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Regret says, “Remember when you tried to learn guitar to impress that girl and ended up playing ‘Smoke on the Water’ at half speed for four months?”

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I say yes.

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She says, “You peaked then.”

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6:51 PM

Dinner. Bowl of emotional leftovers. Anxiety eats half. Regret eats the rest. I get a spoon from the dishwasher. It’s clean. Somehow still wrong.

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Breadcrumb Memory Error #4: Did I RSVP to the thing? The thing on Thursday? Is it Thursday? What is Thursday?

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8:44 PM

Lie on the floor. Scroll phone. Discover I liked a stranger’s Instagram post from 2017 while trying to zoom in on a bookshelf. That’s a digital felony. Change name. Enter Witness Protection.

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Regret updates her status to: “Active Now.”

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Anxiety changes into pajamas. They’re my pajamas. But tighter. And they itch.

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10:03 PM

Try to sleep. Lie in bed like an unplugged printer. Can’t remember if I locked the front door. Get up. Lock it again. Return to bed. Repeat twice. Consider becoming nocturnal. Consider moving to a lighthouse. Consider everything. All at once.

Regret curls up at the foot of the bed. She hums softly. I think it’s Radiohead.

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Anxiety whispers, “You forgot something.”

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I say, “What?”

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She says, “Exactly.”

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11:17 PM

Final thought before sleep:

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I was supposed to respond to Singh.

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And I still haven’t found that spoon.