7 am and the alarm goes off. If it went off in words it would have to be something along the lines of "AAAHHH!!!!!!!HELP!!!!GOOD MORNING!!!!!!AAAHH!!!!!AGAIN!!!!!!AAAAAH!!!!!YOU!!!!!YES,YOU!!!!!!!OH-MY-FUCKING-GOD!!!!CANYOUHEARME?!?!!!!!GET UP!!!!!NOWWWW!!".
0_0 I thought and screamed to get back at it, then with an annoyingly nonviolent push of a button; new alarm time: 07.11 am. Good night.
The alarm inevitably rang again and I staggered out of bed with halitosis hot enough to floor a musk but no time for Colgate or Listerine. I was getting up to drive a family member to work, this is empirically speaking a bit early for me to get up and the fact that I'd had around 5 hours of sweat-dripping, arm-flailing Grand Slam fun on the new Wii last night didn't help on the heaviness of the eyelids. Nor did the following obligatory long distance relationship mobile phone/SMS/Skype-argument either. I went to bed 1.30am. "T minus 5 hours, 30 minutes and counting".
It definitively didn't start out as a good day. I got up, thought the house was strangely empty, wandered around aimlessly until I found no one waiting to be driven off to work. I had a pondering piss and somewhere in the cracks and crevices of my cerebral cortex I encountered a shabby memory of someone saying my sister would do it instead. Great.
I made my way out, more scowling than yawning, and found that I had mail. I don't know anyone who's not exited about getting mail, and seeing that I've been growing grumpier by the day impatiently and unfruitfully waiting for two weeks to receive the books I ordered, I was enthralled to finally find mail for ME. I couldn't wait to see which of the around ten books I ordered had arrived first. Just the thought of this circle-closing sequence superseded by another nine mornings of postal treasure hunting made the glaring sun seem dull in comparison. I might even have contemplated smiling for a second.
Happy at last to have the Robert Cialdini classic in my hands I retired to my room and logged on to the WWW only to find a message from my mate telling me the September 11th festival gig he'd booked me for months ago wasn't happening anymore. Last night I wrote him asking "so what's up with the gig, I haven't heard from you for time". The reply I got was "Well it's fully booked now and as I hadn't heard from you I thought you didn't want to do it". JUST F****** GREAT.... Sod this.
I could have sworn I saw Faith driving up and down my street making faces at me before she sped off leaving behind her the image of an impeccably manicured middle fifth of a fist. My radioactive sourness made the milk curdle in a nearby cow. The fact that my soundtrack, making its sodden way out of my grandmother's downstairs radio this very second, is that fantastic Eurovision fiddle Fairytale fucksong -sorry; folk song, officially makes this morning the best ever. And you wonder why people lose faith in God. A very merry Christmas to the lot of you.
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