It is Sunday.
I decide “time to clean the kitchen.”
Then, I vacuum.
While vacuuming, I think “well, at least I did something productive this weekend.”
I take a beat, and realize: I did way too much adult shit on Saturday. Nothing primal, though. Sorry for robbing you of that visual.
But there isn’t a tangible, physical trail of the evidence I did anything, outside of the carton of cherry tomatoes I scored at the farmers market.