The first thing I hear every morning is static. I never bothered to properly tune the radio, and I never cared much for the music it played; come to think of it, I never cared much for waking up. Then there’s the daunting task of taking a shower, of liberally applying layers of cosmetics, of finding my car keys. I do not like mornings.
Maybe my days get off to bad starts because of this curmudgeon-inducing static. If my alarm crooned ‘Here Comes the Sun’ on vinyl, I bet I’d thrust into a jovial world sunshine and roses. Better yet, if Jack Johnson or John Mayer or someone slightly dreamy (Waldo might even qualify for this) would sit at my bedside and softly, gently, and oh-so-tenderly brandish me awake, I might actually roll out of bed with a smile on my face (my ex-roommates and best friends can tell you that this is, indeed, unpossible).
Perhaps the worst mornings are those when above all static, coughing prevails. Sickness! Hypothetically speaking, I’d continue to lay in bed, and scrutinize if there was any possible way to rise. My bedside stand, serving as an outpost for all sorts of danger, would be stacked with candles, bottled water, and the codeine syrup that I’d swigged generous proportions of the night before. And twenty-eight minutes into my attempt at sleep that night before, after plugging my nose and chugging codeine syrup, I’d realized that there were no pillow cases on my pillows. So I’d ascend to my closet to sift through last month’s laundry, stuff the dimwitted pillows into their sacks and call it a sick night, and later a sick morning. Then I’d skip class and wallow in sickness.
I wish I could say the previous paragraph were false.
approximatelyes.com 