"The Fool on the Hill" by the Beatles
She opens her eyes to a gray ceiling, pain immediately shooting through her body. She starts her days by rolling off her futon (perpetually folded into couch-position), and shuffling to the bathroom. I’m sure she takes vitamins or a gummy- that won't work- while she’s in there. Maybe she’ll shower, but it’s not a given. Maybe she showered the night before, but it's not like she needs to rush. It’s not like she has to go to work today: that’s only on Sundays... surely a welcome change to her once intense work week. So, she stands at the kitchen counter while the keurig hums, checking for the texts messages she may have received in the night. She makes her coffee with non-dairy powdered creamer (a habit she hasn't broken despite how disgusting she's always claimed it to be, or the fact that she doesn't actually dairy intolerant). She takes her mug- one that she used when I was a child, no doubt- and makes her way to her bedroom. Her days...