This morning I stayed in bed until I hated my bed. It was five minutes. I can’t stand myself when I’m not doing anything, so I hated myself for five minutes. I got up and walked towards my closet without regard for my sheets or my pillow or blanket or the dirty clothes I slept with. They will stay there, getting brittle in the sunlight along the veins of the wrinkles. All day, frying up and crisping at the edges. I don’t see the reason to make my bed if I’m just going to sleep in it again. By that logic I will make my bed once in my life. Although probably, that day will come without me knowing it. Hopefully. So then I’ll never have to make my bed. I once asked a magic eight ball at a sleepover when I would die. It said no. I put together that it had to be a yes or no question. I revised. Would I die before friday? It said no. But it could’ve said yes. I wavered on neutral, but wished I dreaded the latter more. My aunt gave me her tarot deck when I was thirteen. It smelled like weed and rainy playground asphalt. She told me no it was not silly, no it was not a fortune telling gimmick, it was a guide from the spirits. An angel kiss. A universe nudge. I liked the idea that a power I couldn’t see for some reason wanted to help me. I tried to be impartial when I interpreted the cards, but that’s impossible. I always do it wrong. I avoid fate at all costs. I avoid pattern at all costs. I won’t do things when it’s decided that I should. I won’t to do things when it’s decided that I must. Sometimes people still make me do those things. Like once, for example, in the backseat of a car. I didn’t say anything, so it wasn’t their fault. The underneath of their fingernails smelled like onion powder. I mostly just laid there, about five minutes. But, of course, since I was doing nothing, I hated myself. For five minutes. Plus when sometimes I still do. But mostly it just feels like there’s magnets in my head all ripping away through my brain to find their pair. I hate feeling helpless to situation. I hate feeling like I’m walking in a hallway where my shoulders touch each wall. I hate feeling like those cows shuffling to the slaughter in the vests for autistic people. I’ll do terrible things to avoid that feeling. I’m selfish too much. I have simultaneous imposters’ syndrome and a superiority complex, though I do best when I think of myself as little as possible. I am easily my least favorite person to be with. My aunt, the one with the hot-boxed tarot deck, is one of my favorites. She’s crazy. In a good, bad, and neutral way. She’s very kind. She talks a lot so she always eventually stumbles upon something really profound. She’s given me lots of good angel kisses and universe nudges that way. I wonder if she knows how much I remember of everything she says, because really I do. I trust her implicitly because I don’t think she’s ever done something she didn’t want to. She’s also very productive. In my opinion, the American economy has ruined the idea of productivity by making it seem like work is the only means to that end, when I’ve found most work - in that sense - to be unfulfilling and fruitless. We’re a wasteful society when it comes to people’s time and energy. Ideally we’ll spend about 85% of our lives living. Give or take 10%. If I ever become so depressed I have nothing better to do than make my bed, you should check in on me. I’d hate to become brittle in the sun.
Lila Dubois is an 19 year old waitress, musician, and student at the University of Pennsylvania who writes to explore the kaleidoscope of humanity in the seemingly mundane of everyday life (and also, for her own personal sanity). Her writing has been featured in various journals and recognized by the National Scholastic Art and Writing Awards; her music can be found on all streaming services. She works out of Los Angeles and Philadelphia.