Saturday Afternoon

Lisa woke up to the sound of chewing.
Not the polite, distant kind of it, this was loud, confident chewing, the kind that suggested absolutely zero concern for social norms. She opened one eye and found a gray rabbit sitting on her nightstand, calmly eating a carrot and leaving orange shavings on her alarm clock.
“Eh… what’s up, doc?” he said. Lisa stared. Blinked. Pinched herself.
“Ow,” she muttered. “Great. I’m awake.”
Bugs Bunny grinned. “Good! Big day today. Adventure day. You’re going to love it.”
Before she could ask why a cartoon icon was in her bedroom, the floor dropped out from under her bed—literally. Lisa yelped as she fell straight down a tunnel, arms flailing, only to land neatly on her feet in the middle of a desert that looked suspiciously like it had been painted five minutes ago.
Bugs landed beside her, unbothered. “Stick with me, kid. Rule number one: gravity is more of a suggestion.” The day unfolded at a pace that ignored all logic.
Lisa was chased by an overconfident hunter who tripped over his own rifle, a construction crew that built a wall around her while she was standing there, and a bull who somehow signed paperwork before charging. Every problem had a ridiculous solution—step aside at the last second, hold up a sign that said WRONG WAY, or let someone else’s plan implode spectacularly.
At one point, Lisa found herself disguised as a barbershop quartet singer for no reason whatsoever. At another, she was suddenly holding a pie she did not remember baking.
“Is this how your life always is?” she asked Bugs as he casually swapped the desert for a ski slope by pulling down a painted backdrop. “Only when it’s funny,” he said.
What surprised Lisa most was how light everything felt. No consequences stuck. No mistakes followed her around. Every embarrassment vanished as soon as the next gag landed. When she messed up—and she did, often—it turned into a punchline instead of a failure.
By lunchtime (which happened at sunset for unclear reasons), Lisa realized something important.
She wasn’t anxious.
Not about what she said. Not about what came next. Not about whether she was doing it “right.” In Bugs Bunny’s world, confidence wasn’t about knowing the outcome—it was about trusting that things would work out, preferably in the most ridiculous way possible.
Near the end of the day, Bugs walked her back to where her bedroom should have been. It appeared suddenly, standing upright in the desert like it belonged there.
“Any advice?” Lisa asked before stepping inside.
Bugs tapped his chin. “Yeah. Don’t take the chase so seriously. Most folks run themselves into trouble.”
With that, he vanished, leaving behind only a carrot and the faint echo of laughter.
Lisa woke up in her bed, alarm buzzing, room perfectly normal.
Except for the carrot on her nightstand. She smiled.
All day long, she handled problems a little differently, stepping aside instead of panicking, laughing when things went sideways, trusting that not every obstacle needed force.
After all, some days aren’t meant to survive. They’re meant to be outsmarted.