ETHER DIARIES

    It’s just 9:15 p.m., but my mouth keeps betraying me with yawns so wide they could swallow my coffee mug. I drained the last drops from the coffeemaker, hoping caffeine might sharpen my brain enough to absorb CNN’s latest update on the North Korean-American conflict. No luck.
    These days, staying up past 11 feels like a feat. I used to greet sunrise with wide eyes—whether cramming for exams, binge-watching dramas, or laughing with friends over greasy food and bad decisions. Now, with unfinished office work glaring at me, I simply shrugged and called it a night. Anyway, I’m up at 5:00 a.m. tomorrow. Saturday, for what it’s worth.
    Lying in bed, I mentally ticked off tomorrow’s to-do list. First order of business: my outfit. I sprang up and pulled out a crisp white long-sleeved shirt, khaki chinos, and leather loafers. Classic. I spotted my old tight shirt and skinny jeans too, but the memory of crotch discomfort was enough to veto that idea.

Wardrobe settled, I returned to bed and resumed planning. Drop by the laundromat. Get the car washed. Pay bills—in order: association dues, electric, credit card. I tried to mentally audit my credit card charges: the fridge… the car vacuum… the coffee table and carpet… groceries.

Groceries. That last trip to Landers was oddly satisfying. After work, my friends and I raced to the store like it was a party. I scored a bathroom mat on sale, grapes, nuts, and a dozen cans of zero-calorie soda (because yes, calories matter now).

Then I remembered the upcoming movie night I’m hosting. It’s going to be chill—cheese, cold cuts, crackers, and a solid film. I grabbed my phone and texted my friend to remind her about the Martini she promised to bring.

Another yawn. It’s just 10:00 p.m. I used to consider this the start of my night. That recent club visit? Not worth retelling. The strobe lights and relentless “tugs tugs” beat triggered a migraine so bad I threw up, not from alcohol, but from sensory overload. I’m officially allergic to nightlife.

I closed my eyes one last time, thoughts unraveling into a tangle of plans and stray memories. Sleep hovered near. Then, one final thought surfaced—sharp, undeniable, and weirdly comforting:

“Shit. I’m a tito.”