5 – 6 AM: I wake up and scream. I reflect on the ants that have infected my bed and also my dreams. I write their messages in my journal and decide on the three hot dogs I will eat that day. Then I go into the bathroom where the ants have organized my magazines. I read a New Yorker poem out loud to no one.
8 AM: I take a shower to remove the ants from my body. I rub coconut oil on my eyelids so I can blink more easily. I rub coconut oil on the bottoms of my shoes so I can glide to work quicker. I eat a spoonful of coconut oil to lubricate my esophageal passage and then slide the first raw hot dog down my lubed-up food pipe.
9 AM: I lie face-down on the floor and get my last hour of deep REM sleep while the hot dog passes, undisturbed, through my body.
7 AM: I wake up as the flame from the match I lit the night before reaches my fingertips. I make awkward eye contact with my dog and kick off the plastic covers that I use to sweat out my fever.
7:15 AM: I make a breakfast of blended oats, apples, hay, grain, and grassy stalks. I load this dry blend into my feedbag and eat it while I trot on the treadmill.
8 AM: I whip seven egg whites into a French Meringue and name him Kevin. I drink a glass of water with my eyes closed to remember what it feels like. Me and Kevin bathe in the waters of a nearby stream while I catch up on emails and google “intimidating LinkedIn profile pictures.”
4 AM: The darkness is my best friend and I am in a non-monogamous relationship with the morning fog. The sunrise is my mom. I walk head-first into my kitchen and request a protein shake from the fridge. The fridge is reluctant but ultimately bends to my dominance. I leave a generous tip.
6 AM: Work begins. I watch the title sequence to a Hulu Original Show and take notes. I whistle to the birds outside my door. They yell at me to pay the rent. I say “No thank you, Mario!” and move on.
7 AM: I go to the grocery store to protest eggs.
8 AM: I take a shot of two parts ginger extract and three parts ginger extract. The ginger extract makes my eyes bleed and I am technically dead for 14 minutes. I am rescued by a handsome paramedic who tells me the ending of Game of Thrones. Why would he do that?
2 PM: I’m startled awake by the Shrek The Third DVD menu repeating in perpetuity. I dust the crumbs off my crumbs and rise out of bed slowly, starting with my neck. I start my Shrek film from the top and begin my morning workout: 7 stair lifts and 14 sets of Jeffrey Dean Morgan.
3 PM: I take a two-hour steam. I sweat out all the toxins that Shrek has put inside my body. I whisper goodbye to them as they slip down the drain. I turn off the steam and return to the living room where, until the end of the day, I shall trade Pokémon cards with mother.
7 AM: I write a book called What to Expect When You Go Outside. I send it to my editor for notes but — as he’s a bird — he can only speak in squawks. He pecks at my manuscript and poops on some newspaper.
8 AM: I dip my fists in yogurt. My hands firmly grasp the medley of fruits, and as the juices drip down my wrists I extract sustenance from my yogurt knuckles.
9 AM: I run onto my roof to stare at the sun. I’m blinded and transfixed and need to use sound to navigate my way back. I fall down the fire escape while clapping my hands together and yelling the lyrics of John Mellencamp’s “Check It Out.” I have no idea where I am.
10 AM: I get to work and realize I’ve forgotten my ear. I have to run to CVS to get a new one and the man behind the counter tells me I look like Brian Doyle-Murray. I sense that he’s hinting at something. He’s Brian Doyle-Murray.