Saturdays are for getting tangled in the top sheet and the comforter and letting the hours drip into afternoon; the sound of rain loud through the glass, and angry. For blanket burritos, and getting engrossed in carefully-crafted stories, and moving only when it gets too warm under the covers.
Saturdays are for cupcakes at four in the afternoon in the guise of both breakfast and lunch; for getting both the blueberry and the chocolate and caramel flavors, and for getting frosting on your nose. Because who knows if and how it is possible to ever eat a cupcake properly.
Saturdays are for trying on sneakers that you’ve lusted after for months and feeling like a badass and a queen; for dancing around in Nikes. For colorful t-shirts like prayers for sunshine, a fifteen-dollar taste of Summer.
Saturdays are for tacos that taste so good that you order another round and for mezcal, the smoky aftertaste of it. They are for sass and sarcasm, for well-placed savagery that has you both wide-eyed and laughing. For easy moments. For getting tipsy without noticing it on raspberry vodka that tastes like water and sugar more than anything else.
Saturdays are for ginger and orange tea, for last minute blog posts, for unmade beds, for staying away from Instagram, and for remembering to wash your face before going to bed.