My work schedule currently has me at my station at 8 am Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. I make the ten minute ride on my brother’s bike, borrowed because mine fit me eight years ago, and because I ruined the pedals trying to replace them with reverse threads. The morning is brisk, though the sky is an unstreaked blue-grey that promises stinging sunshine and hot pavement.
I actually like the mornings, and would probably enjoy them more if I went to bed at a reasonable time. I fell asleep last night at midnight and woke again at two, and did not fall asleep again for two frustrated hours. I cursed my alarm clock this morning and silenced it three times before sagging myself off the edge of my bed.
I am stuck here for seven hours, and will probably post again, for the sake of my sanity. For now I’ll just keep writing.
My body isn’t awake yet. I wish I’d risen at seven when my alarm went off. I lifted weights last night and I’d be feeling a good deal more alive if I’d had an opportunity to stretch out the ensuing stiffness. But no—I fed my morning to the alarm clock, slipping it ten minutes at a time in return for its silence, a peace offering in hopes that I might find meaningful sleep in return.
I didn’t, of course, and I arrived at work poofy haired and disheveled.
And now I’m surrounded by people already rushing from office space to office space, pushing and blaming and rolling eyes and sighing when they think backs are turned. They just want to do their job, but they’re just another cog in the murder machine, and so am I, and so is UPS, so they need to chill out and wait for their stuff to be delivered.
Bothering me isn’t going to hurry the supplier. Thank you.
My leisure is invincible.
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