Tag Archives: morning

2012: Not Letting The Man Get Me Down

To my extreme chagrin, I have to work just like all the rest of you. After having all of this wonderful time off during the holidays, it’s especially chagrin-filled. The more I am allowed to rise at my leisure at 9am, the happier I am as a person. But sadly, that will only become a reality if you, dear reader, make me famous. Get to it.

As I stumble every morning out of my hateful sleep and awake to the sounds of angry little morning trolls beating their tiny troll drums inside my head, I think to myself, “Self, why do we have to get up at such a godforsaken hour? And why has the dog (or cat) not learned how to MAKE ME SOME GODDAMN COFFEE YET?”

The dog, thus far, has only learned how to look cute. No coffee skills at all.

These questions make sense to me during the wee hours, but then the horror that I’m awake wears off and I’m left with nothing but my sheer determination to arrive at my office before some choad drinks all the coffee without starting another pot. I warn you, Sir Choad (because I know it’s a dude, not a ladyperson) – if I ever actually witness with mine eyes the thing you do, I will proclaim “you should be shot” and throw the glass carafe at your head. I will take aim. I will not miss.

Once I settle into my office, I am immediately enraged by literally tens of personal emails from websites to which I have inevitably given my email address. Why, just this morning, it appears I have an urgent message from Sting. Sting, I didn’t realize that you cared, or that I was high on your radar. I thank you. Now kindly fuck off out of my emailz.

As my day meanders on with a succession of request upon request of people needing shit from me without a thought as to what I might need, I long for the sanctity of lounging in bed and operating my tiny world from there. Because honestly, if I can convince someone that this is way more productive than me getting up and getting dressed, it can totally be accomplished. I’m actually very focused when I work from home and am not easily sucked in to the Lifetime Network or reality shows. I *may* be sucked in to the idea that pants are a complete waste of time in all circumstances. That is the only negative. I swear. And it’s more of a negative for you, not me.

Either way, I like to start out with a thimbleful of optimism at the beginning of each new year, so 2012, you are already looking brighter simply because I have a vision one day that I might be able to get paid doing something that is legal while remaining in my robe. The vision, once far too distant, is a shimmering heat wave on a road in a desert that leads to my possible future, and I will relish in that desert dream until someone reminds me that the desert is full of insects and thirst.

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Good Morning, Please Stop Talking

Yes.  I am an asshole.

From the hours of 6am (or earlier when necessary) to about 10am, I am a complete dick.  Really doesn’t matter what has happened, how I’ve slept, what I ate the night before, Nothing.  Matters.  At.  All.  I’ve tried and tried, and it’s like an unattainable floaty thing out of my grasp, to act like a decent human being in those hours.  I’m not sure what it is, but I wake up furious and it doesn’t go away for at least an hour, sometimes two.

This affects my loving husband only for the most part.  Which is terrible.  He’s the last person at whom I wish to lash out.  There’s a pretty elemental key, however, that he keeps forgetting:


There will be no purpose, no joyful outcome, nothing you might expect from a normal person.  You will YET AGAIN be disappointed, nay, enraged at my ability to be an absolute (insert any fashion of female-asshole-descriptive nouns here.)

I do apologize.  And for everyone’s information, it’s not something I shrug off and say “oh well it’s just who I am DEAL WITH IT.”  No.  I take my abhorrent behavior quite seriously, but upon realizing there is no fucking cure, I just try to not talk.  This is my brilliant solution.

The not talking, however, is just seen as yet another shitty evasive tactic.  I’m doing it for your own protection.  I promise.  Lest the words that next fly out of my mouth are words that no one is meant to hear.

The actual cure would be to somehow acquire a career that allows me to lounge in my robe for as long as possible.  Like writing.

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