Very mysteriously, I spent the whole semester faffing about and accomplishing approximately nothing of worth. Wine-soaked and desultory, my mornings, evenings, and afternoons found themselves filled with idle and useless engagements towards which I — not one to do anything by halves — devotedly myself wholeheartedly.

I daydreamt til I could spin up an ensemble cast and seven seasons’ worth of plots and betrayals in the time it takes to pour a teacup. I suntanned til I turnt brown and, through the layering of silks and gauzes, could contrive melanin portraits of occidental revolutionaries on my back. Art galleries feared my visits, which would soon balloon into glad hours of critical pontifications, and I was banned from both local book clubs for unsportsmanlike conduct.

Any man on the street could tell you how easily I can stand on my head upside-down and peel oranges with one hand, or why I am so strongly detested by our city’s roving gangs of spoken-word poets. Once, while taking the highlighter to random passages in thrift store books, I espied a portrait of a chappie in saffron robes. This meditation trick seemed ripe for burning daylight, but I abandoned it once came the visions of lotus flowers — it’s simply no business for a gentlemen.

Under duress, I will admit to sometimes napping too long the hours away. On these occasions I spent busy nights in astronomical observation, naming each star after one of my interminable great-aunts and charting new constellations to be mailed for the consideration of the royal space agency. Neither were the skies any safer from my gaze in the day, where I was recognized far and wide as a cloud watcher of no small accomplishment and dazzled audiences for how long I could stare into the sun without blinking.

Not to mention, I was a dab hand at the euphonium.

Soon enough, I christened myself wastrel supreme, for none could match my accomplishments in the arts unproductive. But no crown comes easy, and a long shadow soon moved over my heart. After I lost my third game of correspondence chess to myself, I was so fed up that I shred all my envelopes and righteously forswore ever again writing a line of algebraic notation, no matter how vital the circumstances.

I started dreaming of starched shirts, morning coffees, and reams and reams technical documentation. My listless heckles at open mic nights only provoked shoulder pats and expressions of concern. The mayor stopped by with a bouquet of flowers and a “get well soon” after I failed to picket the local committee meetings. What could be yearned for more than long commutes, soft cubicles, and endless droning smalltalk? Is this what I wanted to be, I asked myself? An idler and damnable slugabed with no prospects — and even less sense?

I sat up. Yes, I decided, and proceeded to practice rotating commonplace fruits in my mind’s eye.¹

1. I was already the undisputed champion, of course, but you only ever get to be the very best by sitting on your ass all day. ↩︎