Living eternally as the daughter of two primordial gods comes with a lot of pressure. Enduring a lifetime of excruciating pain, Oizys continues to search for a Sunday routine that will leave her rested and restored for the week ahead.

Oizys, 2,800 years old, is the ancient Greek goddess of misery. She lives in a first-floor studio apartment on the Lower East Side. She pays $4,600/month.

EARLY BIRD. It’s around 3 a.m. I physically can’t sleep. I’m always tired because I was eternally damned at birth. Around this time, I usually devour a jar of melatonin just to see if it’ll do anything, but it probably won’t. So I roll back onto my mattress sawblades and wait for a rest that never comes.

UP AND AT ’EM. I’m typically out of bed early because a swarm of bats attacks my face before sunrise. I try to make my bed, but it is written in the virgin blood of Hestia that the fitted sheet will never stay on. Honestly, 90 percent of my Sunday is just dealing with curses like that. It’s not for everyone, but I make it work for me.

BREAKFAST. I never have time for breakfast. Apate, the goddess of deceit, made it so as soon as I leave my room, I’m chased by several wailing fire demons who want nothing more than to wear my skin. It could take me anywhere from three to six hours to banish their spirits back to the underworld through a fiery sinkhole in my kitchen. But they get me up and moving.

TIME TO INDULGE. There’s this great coffee place on 12th and D that I always go to. They know me there too. The baristas weep blood whenever I stop in since the sight of my face was cursed to conjure everyone’s deepest fears. While everyone writhes on the floor, I make an Americano.

CHECKING IN. On the walk back to my place, I get a call from my parents (curse). My mom, Nyx, is the goddess of night, and my dad, Erebus, is the god of deep darkness, so the conversation always drags. They tell me they’re disappointed in me. I wish a thousand deaths upon their souls. We both shriek and shriek until our phones explode. Family stuff.

WINDING DOWN. By now, it’s around 3 p.m., and I’m back home. I kill a few straggling fire demons and take a look in the fridge. My stomach starts to rumble because of the everlasting hunger I endure at the hands of Deimos and Phobos for stealing one of their sacred golden plates. I usually cook, which I think would be fun if I could experience joy. But on other days, the gods have mercy on me, and I get to go somewhere nice for dinner, like a garbage can or the Applebees at Times Square.

NIGHTY NIGHT. Somehow, the days always slip away—probably because Kronos declared I can never exist between 4 and 7 p.m. and experience the beauty of sunsets. But that’s okay; I’m a total night owl. Maybe it’s the moon or the endless blackness eating away at my soul, but it’s when I feel the most “me.” Later in bed, I might watch a horror film or read Dante’s Inferno, before slipping into a stress dream about work.

Anyway, I genuinely love my Sundays because they give me the chance to reflect. Whenever I’m writing on my tablet journals in blood, I’m always asking: “Am I fulfilled? Was I happy today? Am I meeting my wellness goals?” The answer will forever be “no,” but there’s always next Sunday.

After all, it is a day of unrest.