The Demanding Burden of Waking Up


The alarm clock rings, but if it thinks it has a snowball’s chance in hell to wake me up, it’s dead wrong. Maybe I’m just bad at sleeping. Maybe that’s just it. Maybe instead of apes I evolved from an owl and that’s why I can never sleep or wake up when I want to.

I’m definitely good at ignoring the alarm clock, though. I tune the sound out and hug my stuffed toy racoon even more. I kind of wish the whole Toy Story thing was real and my stuffed toy racoon really was alive, so it can wake me up or murder me in my sleep. Either one works.

The alarm clock rings even louder. Jesus Christ, alarm clock. You’re a TV series and I’m catching all 13 episodes.

It then enters my mind all I have to do for the day, and that the earlier I get up, the better. Moaning, I get out of bed. (Seriously, my moan would make a porn star jealous.) I turn off my alarm clock before I’m tempted to open fire and start making my bed.

When I make my bed, I start getting this…separation anxiety. It’s a mixture of melancholy and regret. I don’t want to leave my bed. I don’t. But I have to go out if I want to be a contributing member to society. And, also…I kind of want to see what’s out there.

But I’ll be back, bed. I shall return. And I’ll get a good rest. Right after I earn it.


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