So, this is not necessarily au courant; however, it was recent enough in my mind that it still has validity, not to mention that I still carry the scars from those days...
I’m not normally one to get all wanky about life, philosophizing and bollocks like that. Really. Given what you’re about to read, I pledge immediately to forgive you for thinking otherwise. A lot of the histrionic bile that’s about to spew forth from my gaping maw will doubtless prove to paint quite the warped picture of my persona. Ignore it. Take my word, would you…I am a rational, reasonably grounded individual. Honest.
Right. Disclaimer done. Let the bollocks commence.
So…seriously. Why? W-H-Bloody- Y. I cannot postulate a question any more succinct or direct than that. It dawned on me today. Alarm went off, altogether too bloody early, I’ll have you know, I came out of my nightly coma, and started again. The Routine. Wake up. Think about getting up. Decide it’s a bad idea that can be avoided for…oooh….four minutes? Did I shave yesterday? If so, do I need to shave today? I’m facially hirsute, it’s true, but I’m fair-haired…I can get by without shaving. Yesterday, I’m pretty sure I shaved. That’s a whole seven extra minutes I’ve saved. Almost a snooze and a half. (Second question: Who decided an alarm clock snooze length of five minutes was acceptable? Surely ten is the absolute minimum. I’ve always had a ten minute snooze, ever since I went digital. Yes, I know, I could buy another alarm clock, with ten minute snooze functionality, but I shouldn’t have to. So, in protest, I keep the alarm clock with the demi-deficient snooze functionality to prove my point, and by direct consequence, deepen my despair with my current routine based shatpile. But I digress.)
I think you get the general picture. I got up, grudgingly. Did the whole shower thing. I dislike showering. I like feeling clean. This is a problem. They need to invent a method of showering while asleep. Not necessarily with water. That’s silly…the sheets, and everything, you know. But something. I can talk to my parents 8500 miles away through a tiny piece of plastic that sends invisible talk rays into the sky instantly. Sleep-shower technique should have been developed.
Science and technology is not my forte.
Coffee. Now, that’s something I like. If the question I originally posed had been “Why get up?”, “Coffee” would be an ENTIRELY ACCEPTABLE ANSWER. But it wasn’t, and it isn’t. It is the next step in my daily evolution however, from disheveled slumber monster to sensible middle manager guy. Sensible, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. And I am beholding. So there. Coffee happens, simultaneously with socks and cell phone-pocket deposit. Lock the cat in the bathroom (complicated reasons involving cat litter, and dog with fetish for said cat litter, in an apartment with far too few doors), pat the dog, pick up lunch and leave. Come back in, get keys, pat dog again, because she’s looking at me in that “You bastard! Where’d you think you’re going?” manner that’s pretty much impossible to avoid, and once more attempt to leave.
The next few minutes are typically uneventful. I have a four minute commute. If that ever becomes eventful, I’ll move. Normally, the most difficult part of the whole thing is getting the blowers just right, so the window clears, and stays clear. I live in Hawaii. This shouldn’t even factor in. Such is life.
I arrive at work. This is where things take a turn for the worse. I’m a middle manager. This means I have no respect. In the strictest sense of the phrase. In the best Rodney Dangerfield impression musterable. Head peon. That’s my role. I have a team of perfectly delightful, intelligent peons, hand picked by myself. This means that when they fuck up, which they inevitably do, it’s my fault. Hang on a minute!! Perhaps my dog wasn’t accusing me of ditching her this morning. Perhaps it was empathy, or collusion even. Perhaps she was consciously giving me a reason to stay home. A guilt trip, to outdo the inevitable guilt trip that calling in sick, or apathetic, can cause. Of course! That’s it! They do say dogs are intelligent. I think it goes humans, some type of monkey (Do they prefer ape? Is it racist to call them monkey?), dolphins, pigs, dogs, then everything else. Probably the platypus. Anything that fucked up has to have something going for it, like ugly people and good personalities. Well, too late now. I’m here. Time to get the show on the road.
I cannot even begin to force myself to write details of the next 8-10 hours of abject degradation. Suffice to say, it involves the general public, who, by the way, are all ass clowns. I have no doubt I am precisely the same when I go from head peon to general public. This does not upset me. They do. Repeatedly. Ass Clowns (please note the extra capitalization in use there. This is an emphasis thing.). I am constantly amazed that for a species that has done so much, and is capable of such spectacular wonder and creativity and design, how come the ONLY people you ever meet are knuckle-dragging, fuck-witted self-obsessed whiny gas bags with a propensity for over eating and under achieving.
Which brings me full circle. Why? Why every morning do I get up to do this shite. To kowtow to the aforementioned ass clowns, as they tread the same beaten path as me, drifting endlessly from some form of subjugated peon-ness (head or otherwise), to that state of complete numb-nutted buffoonery.
Fuck it. I’m calling in sick.
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