While cleaning your dirty clothes, you are haunted by the sensation of having cleaned all these same clothes before—perhaps infinite times.
You finally decide to go running, and jog a gruelling five miles, but MapMyRun only logs half a mile. Strange!
Your child has reached a new tantrum-frequency rate of one tantrum per minute, yet each tantrum is approximately twenty minutes long. The math . . . it doesn’t add up.
You awake in a cold sweat at 2 A.M., remembering the time you said “Owen Wilson” when you meant to say “Wilfred Owen.” Before you know it, morning has arrived.
No matter how often you hit the thumbs-down icon, Red Hot Chili Peppers songs keep popping up on your Tina Turner Spotify station.
Having finished peeing, you now have to pee again. You’re still just sitting there on the toilet, staring at your phone. So that’s fine.
It’s Wednesday. But last week? Also Wednesday.
You’re still washing your hands when it becomes time to wash your hands again.
You awake in a cold sweat at 2 A.M., remembering the time you said “Hieronymus Bosch” when you meant to say “Thelonious Monk.” Boom! It’s morning.
Abruptly, you recall that the former WrestleMania villain and serial golf cheater Donald Trump gets to decide if billions of people live or die. This feeling is sickening and familiar, as though you’ve had the same abrupt realization before, perhaps hundreds of times a day, for years.
Facebook shows you an ad that reads “Want to stop waking up in a cold sweat?” mere moments before you think, I want to stop waking up in a cold sweat. Spooky!
You’re almost fully convinced that we are all just Sims in a swimming pool, paddling and paddling, while the sadist who has removed the ladder looks on with glee.
Whenever you hit play on “Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker,” you are mysteriously transported to the following day, face down on your drool-damp sofa. What the fuck is going on here?!
You have crafted an excellent tweet about a topic that was fresh this morning but is now, somehow, a year out of date.
Leafing through your melatonin-fuelled dream journal at 2 A.M., you see a note that you wrote in 2016: “What if Jesse Pinkman were a character in ‘Westworld’?” Goosebumps emerge on your arms as you realize that this has, in a way, come true. Now you’re staring at other journal entries from years past—“tennis dogs,” “vampires in space,” “murder hornets”—terrified that they may also merge with reality.
You find that you’re ready to eat another food while still engaged in eating the previous food.
“Let’s look at Instagram now!” your brain screams, interrupting your current activity, which was looking at Instagram.
It’s Wednesday. But tomorrow was also Wednesday.
