It’s 4:00 AM. That’s Four-godforsaken-o-killme-clock-heckingbecausethisisakidsshow-ante-innerpeaceinnerpeaceinnerpeace-Meridian.
Glad I got that off my chest. I use a pair of needlenose pliers to pry open my eyelids, which have been sealed shut by eyeboogers/sleepy sand/whatever you call that stuff. Another indicator that our biology doesn’t want our eyes to open just because of some arbitrary time zone created by the corporate underbelly of the world. My brain is groggy, flashing between moments of near consciousness and the dream I had about having to reroof my house in the middle of a blizzard.
I think there was a frog coaching me. People like to suggest lucid dreaming as some kind of “good idea”, but I avoid it precisely because my dreams are already too much like a Tim Burton movie without my attempting to try to act like I’m awake.
As I slither, like an amputated centipede, out of my twin sized bed that could technically hold twin caterpillars, I bang my head against my desk, my toe against my dresser, and my elbow against my Lego Millennium Falcon, which, as if on command, promptly explodes into 2.13x10^42 individual pieces, or, for a better visual, any given two blocks are still stuck together.
The Falcon was one of my greatest achievements, and though some of my coworkers thought it a strange purchase for a 29 year old man, I contend that they purchase things that are far stupider, like mortgages. I’m not overly perturbed about it breaking, as it will give me something to spend the next few months working on, but my toe is already turning purple(I think, as I haven’t turned the lights on yet) and my head has now added the sonorous voice of several childhood cartoon characters to its already far too bloated array of waking up processes.
At this point, with multiple body parts gushing blood, I halt to wonder if I could have a better morning routine. I visualize the inane lunchtime conversations that my coworkers inevitably feel obligated to begin, and recall a line spoken by every one of them, roughly four times per day.
“Without my morning coffee, I don’t know what I would do.”
Like a naked old greek philosopher in a bathtub, I have my eureka moment, realizing that I may yet have an opportunity to transcend this mortal plane. I flick on the lights, releasing the power of Helios into my room, searing the backs of my eyeballs through my still half closed eyelids, and giving me yet another reason to jerk my head sharply, banging it against the door. However, rather than wallowing in self pity as I usually do, I grab the shirt from the back of my chair, jauntily don it, and cross my tiber, headed towards the kitchen.
Ron is my roommate, who, unlike most roommates, has everything in his life together. Ron wakes up cheerily at 3 AM, eats oatmeal from his crockpot, drinks a cup of coffee, cycles to work, and does something with computers or lawyers, I don’t really know, and I don’t really care, since he slides it into the first 20 seconds of any party conversation. Whatever it is that he says, the object of his affection is immediately impressed. I try to avoid going to parties with Ron anymore.
The important thing is that Ron always makes a full pot of coffee, but only drinks one cup in the morning. That means I can purloin about half a cup to try to fix my life, and he probably won’t even notice. Successful people are kind of awful in how they don’t seem to mind when you “borrow” little things in their lives. I have qualitative evidence: I siphoned a gallon of gas out of his car per week before he sold the thing for some “charity” event, and he only ever seemed to think that his tires were a little “underinflated, preventing my optimal hypermiling.”
I successfully approach the kitchen without further incident, unfortunately arriving before Ron has made his exit. “Morning Champ!” he says cheerily, waving his bike helmet at me. I mumble something in a language that neither of us knows, which he takes as a “good morning to you as well” and makes his departure. The biggest perk of his bike commuting is that it takes him long enough that he no longer has time to question my life decisions in the morning before he bounces off to work, as long as I manage to wake up late enough and injure myself on at least one article of furniture.
I approach the coffee pot with all of the reverence that a zombie can muster, clawing around in the cabinet for a vessel in which to hold its fluids. I pull out a “You’re a Star!” Lake Creek Elementary coffee mug, and it occurs to me that elementary schools should probably not be encouraging coffee drinking at such a young age. I think Ron got it from a volunteering event or something. I tip the carafe forward, and watch the dark liquid fill up my mug. I do not question my decision to break my 29 year avoidance of caffeinated beverages. My breaking point has come. I have signed my soul over, now comes the moment of truth.
I raise the beverage to my lips. The bitter and slightly sweet smell of life fills my nostrils. With no more hesitation, I begin pouring it down my gullet. It’s hot. Ow. But I adapt quickly. Microwave ramen and exactly zero patience have scarred my throat over, giving me an excellent resistance to hot foods, and probably a very high propensity towards throat cancer, and the coffee is no mightier than cup of noodles. The scalding sensation passes, and I feel the drink pool in my stomach. I brace myself for results.
After about thirty seconds of nothing, I am enlightened. Like a man born blind receiving sight, my third eye opens, and I begin to see the world for what it truly is, in stunning technicolor. I excitedly down the rest of my coffee, and feel my heartbeat approach frequencies that rival some satellite communication waves. Before I can blink, I am at the door, the entire kitchen industrially cleaned, including that section behind the sink everyone just kind of ignores, and the crevice between the oven and the countertop.
I have a tie on, full windsor expertly knotted, and a daring pocket square jauntily placed in my breast pocket. Before this moment, I didn’t even know I owned a suit. I hop into my car, adjusting my mirrors, winking at myself in the rearview. The car is also suddenly vacuumed, and there is even an air freshener clipped to one of the air vents, replacing the 6 year old tree I had hanging from my mirror previously. (A driving hazard, I now finally understand.)
With a new surge of adrenaline, I carefully back my motor vehicle out of the driveway, driving the speed limit all the way to the highway, waving to Ms. Barbara Claxton, the old lady who likes to do her gardening at an unholy hour, ostensibly because of the heat, though my working theory has been that she is simply a psychopath. This has all changed with my new worldview though, and I realize the true source of her power is a light roast with two cream, no sugar.
On the highway, I deftly change lanes, carefully and cheerily signaling to other drivers my intent with my blinkers, a previously unknown phenomenon to me. My aura envelops the highway, influencing the other drivers to similarly follow safe driving techniques, cease tailgating, and use the zipper merge. I arrive at work, scanning my badge at the gate, wishing the security guard a top of the morning in his native language, which I ascertain to be of Caribbean origin by the bowl of curried goat that I smell in his booth. Amazed by my flawless pronunciation, tears come to his eyes as he begs me to try his homemade tostones.
With a plantain in my mouth and a twinkle in my eye, I effortlessly park my small, fuel efficient vehicle between two of the monster trucks driven by my coworkers. I check my oil levels, and theirs as well, (for good measure) and exuberantly make my way to my cubicle, where I complete my workload for the next week by virtue of some assembly code scripts that I have created in my head while walking up the stairs.
I wake up in the hospital several hours later, my toe and head still ringing, two of my concerned coworkers staring at me.
“What happened?” I croak.
(Literally, rather than metaphorically, though the metaphor would be apt) “Dude, you had like, 3 heart attacks before lunch.”
I exhale, and as the last of the caffeine exits my system, I have one final thought of enlightenment before returning to my limited mortal form.
“Perhaps I should have added some creamer.”
