It’s so comfortable here.

It’s so comfortable here. The cat is snuggled length-wise against my leg. Fat raindrops thump against the skylight.

The alarm on my phone is buzzing. It’s nine a.m. on a Monday. All my friends are already at work, and I should get up. The NyQuil is still wearing off, though, and I could drift in and out of sleep for the next two hours. Lately, I can only sleep well—the good REM stuff—from about six to nine or ten a.m.

It’s so comfortable here. I’m under just a sheet and a thin blanket. I’m wearing pajama shorts so most of the skin on my legs is exposed directly to the cool, mis-matched sheets. This is my favorite temperature to sleep in. It’s just warm enough to open the windows, but still cool enough to convince me that under the covers is where I should stay.

The rest of the house is quiet. The rain and the purring, both steady and familiar, are the only sounds, and they are two of my favorite things to listen to.

It’s so comfortable here. My shoulders, back, arms, and legs are one with the mattress, in near symbiosis. My head has made a perfect bowl in the center of my pillow. The corners of my eyes are just slightly moist with sleep. My body knows this moment well, and I am the most myself here.

I silence the alarm, but the cat is already awake. He climbs on to my chest and stares at my hand like, Am I supposed to pet myself with that? Am I supposed to scratch my own cheeks? I oblige, and after a few minutes, he returns to the end of the bed, puts his arm on my leg, and goes back to sleep.

It’s so comfortable here. Really, I’ve always been here, half-asleep in bed with a purring cat and a rainy soundtrack.

I’m not taking any risks, and There’s no way to fail here. Sleeping in is my calling, my destiny, my jam.

It’s so comfortable here.