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  • Writer's pictureChoo Choo

Hygge


All quiet. The sun peeks through the blinds like a tentative visitor. It woke me from my ravenous slumber and I stumbled downstairs to put on the kettle, eyes swollen with sleep, body practically levitating from the happiness that is ten hours of shut-eye and an obligation-free weekend.

Yesterday as the snow fell I morphed into a pajama-clad creature of productivity, vacuuming, dusting, cooking, practicing, quietly gulping pot after pot of tea with "Making a Murderer" as intermittent background soundtrack and engrossing companion (albeit a rather bleak one). Bread was baked. Clothing was organized. Every now and then I would glance out the windows, the blinds rolled all the way up so as to get the full effect of the snowscape, and cluck disapprovingly at the poor saps who thought it'd be a good idea to go play outside in the middle of a blizzard. Silly rabbits. Then I would shuffle off in my fuzzy slippers to go dust another bookshelf.

During the night, an anonymous good Samaritan took it upon himself to scrape the snow off my car, so now it sits conspicuously naked among columns of giant oblong marshmallows.

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