Every Saturday morning, without fail, I begin my epic quest—making the bed. And every Saturday morning, as if on cue, my brain becomes a fountain of groundbreaking ideas. We're talking world-changing revelations here. The kind of brilliance that could inspire books, resolve global warming, and finally crack the mystery of where all the missing socks go. Nobel-worthy stuff.
Naturally, I reach for my phone, poised to immortalize these flashes of genius. But the moment my thumb hovers over the record button? Boom. Total mental blackout. It’s as if the mere act of recording has a kill switch directly connected to my brain. One second I’m Einstein mid-equation, and the next, my brain is a empty as the toilet paper shelfs at your local walmart during a pandemic
There I stand, fists full of bedsheets, looking down at my phone like it just ate the last donut. I whisper to it, “Please, just one coherent thought.” Spoiler alert: my phone isn’t listening. The ideas are gone, evaporated, like a dream where you almost found the answer to life but then woke up to your cat walking on your face.
So there I am, mid-bed-making, staring at my phone, waiting for a thought—any... single... coherent thought... Spoiler alert: it doesn’t happen. I sigh and go back to fluffing the pillows, surrendering my creative genius to the void. Curtains close until next Saturday.
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