There’s always this voice in my head that tells me I’m not living up to my potential.

It argues with me when I sleep through the six o’clock alarm.

It argues with me when I eat an orange currant scone on a Wednesday afternoon.

It argues with me when I leave a twenty-one percent tip for a mediocre server.

It argues with me when I argue with it.

Fuck it.

Today I’m sleeping in.

Today I’m eating two scones, and it’s not the weekend.

Today I’m tipping the barista for no reason.

Today I’m not arguing.