Scrolling on my phone in bed—as I’m wont to do on weekends (or really anytime I’m not sitting upright)—a curious post made me stop short. “Bed rotting” it read, my depraved brain immediately flashing visuals of necrophilia and coprophilia. “Ew,” I groaned audibly, almost flinging away my phone in disgust, until I read the latter half of the sentence: “…is the latest type of self-care for Gen Z.” Granted, Gen Zers have a proclivity for the absurd—like consuming laundry detergent or getting broccoli haircuts—but I actually have faith that they draw the road far before coitus with corpses and eating poop for pleasure.
I actually have a rigid weekend routine that begins every Friday evening as soon as I clock out...
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