This year’s spring break was a heedless one, filled with craven indulgences and remorseless, sub-sentient sloth. At week’s end, my senses are dulled and my breathing is labored. My hours are now spent in repose, relentlessly swallowing fistfuls of Raisinets without chewing, and wearing only billowing t-shirts and sweatpants to accomodate my revoltingly swift weight gain.
I suppose this is the natural way of things, poetic in its inexorable terribleness.
Meanwhile, my son’s week has served as a mild counterpoint to my tortured, slurred consciousness. Every gurgled groan from me has been met with his benign babbling; my sorrowful gratification made all the more pathetic by his naive exuberance.
See for yourself:
I am deservedly ashamed of myself. Spring break has shown me who I am – a wretched, Chex-eating sluggard.