[Re-edited to fit the 300 word limit]

What’s the least a person can do?
This question has been on my mind for some time. I blink infrequently. Benumbed with fatigue I’m heaped on the sofa staring at nothing. Saliva is gathering into a pool, and I think about swallowing. Is this depression? It appears to be, yet, with guilty satisfaction I realise I’m not depressed, I’m just idle.  The future beckons. A sunset on the beach, picnics midweek, slumping in some beer garden, getting a lift home. If I’d a million pounds it’d give me the luxury of slothfulness, inertia.
But I don’t have a million pounds, I have ten. And, goddammit, that tenner is all the way in the bank. Parties on the beach? Picnics?  At some point someone is going to ask for money, and I’ve got rent to pay. Beer will definitely cost more than a tenner too. Whichever way I cut it, this is gonna require effort.
Bollocks. I don’t want a picnic during the week anyway. The wind is always too windy. Beaches smell funny. Beer makes me wanna piss, and that means getting up.

So what about the future? I have images of laughter and frolics, abstract, saturated with colour. Is that a female?  Is that… kids? I suppose I do want kids. And a car. I can’t make out what car, but beggars can’t be choosers. But anyone can have kids. And a girl – everyone’s got one. I suppose I can make the effort for those things. It’d make my mother proud. Can’t forget mum.
I count to three and stand up. A quick scrub up and I treat myself to a cold sausage. I must work, I’ll work so I can be lazy again. It’s not the noblest motivation, but I don’t need to tell anyone. That’s my secret.