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The Alarm Clock is Not My Friend

20 Aug

*Ring Ring Ring*

Grumble, grumble. Where’s that snooze button? What time is it anyways? 5:00? Shit. Screw that.

I see a bright light. I’m wandering into a paradise. Cookies lining the ground and the air is literally cotton candy. No matter how many sweets I eat, I can’t gain a pound. Somehow, all my dietary concerns don’t matter. In fact, there’s this weird assurance that I’ll get even faster if I eat it. I reach out and touch it, time moving slow as molasses. The ecstasy of anticipation, I want that fluff candy goodness in my mouth. The rush of the sugar coursing through my veins. Yet I tentatively reach for it, as if it’s a delicate treasure. I pinch it, my mouth watering. Eating it isn’t my intention. Savoring every incredible second is.

All of a sudden the cookies begin to crumble to the sound of a blaring alarm. 

“It’s a trap!” General Akbar’s voice rings out. I don’t question it. I try to escape as the sirens wail and the paradise around me crumbles.


*Ring Ring Ring*

Huh? What. Fuck! Seriously! I internalized the alarm clock? What time is it now? 5:05? Why? Why Me?

Darkness. Quick, penetrating darkness. I can’t see I can’t hear. But I’m not afraid. I’m engulfed, but protected. I’m ok. I’m safe. I fear nothing, I feel nothing. I am content. I am in peace. Peaceful. But it’s too peaceful. Surely some sound must exist? Or do I not? What happened to me? Where am I? Where can I find the light?!

I open my eyes and look at the clock. 5:50. Crap! Practice starts in twenty-five minutes! Let’s see, I have a ten minute walk, so that leaves me fifteen to just get my shorts, go to the bathroom, get my shoes ready, make my gatorade and…wait…why didn’t this thing continue to beep after the second snooze? It’s supposed to go off again after a few minutes and stay on.

I swear to God, that thing grew a troll face and looked at me:

“Problem?”

I bolt awake. 5:45. Alright. That was kinda freaky. I get my stuff and go run 9 miles with the team.  At least now I know I’m awake.

I am…right?

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Holy Heck! I Can Drink the Water!

19 Aug

Seriously! You have no idea how happy that makes me, realizing this. And trust me, I’m cranky enough right now that feeling of being content over every little good thing in my life isn’t there. (On a related note: it’s currently replaced by the heavy-eyed, stiffed muscled contempt of rising before dawn). So if I’m not feeling appreciative of the simple things like the sunshine that hasn’t yet graced my zonked-out eyeballs, why would I be so happy that I can drink the water?

Simple! Because I don’t get cancer!

Back home, we are renowned to have the worst water in the area- if not some of the worst in the state. It’s so bad that the utility company is regularly checked to see if it’s slowly poisoning its  customers. Not in the sense that the local government is doing this in compliance with federal law (although I’m sure that’s part of it), no, they’re doing it because it’s seriously that bad.

My father and a few other home owners sent a sample of tap water to an independent testing agency who agreed to see just how bad our water was. His response upon the results was something along the lines of:

“Alright, quick fucking with me. I don’t have time for this. There’s no way that this is tap water, this could only be reclaimed water or from the sewers. I don’t know why you would feel compelled to gather that kind of stuff just to play a prank, but seriously, there’s no way it’s tap.”

Upon learning it was tap his response was slightly more concise:

“Holy Shit!”

So when I see people around here casually getting tap water, it’s like a shock to the system. Half of me wants to begin conducting a research study on the oddly high propensity of Tampa residents to willingly ingest carcinogens.

This morning, I filled up my bottle of water from the tap. Now there’s a Brita filter on it, sure, but still. The old stuff would literally destroy that kind of filter.  I would say I want to jump for joy… but I’ll be honest, the best I really want to do is twirl my finger around in a “woopdie-fuckin-doo” motion. ‘Cus seriously: Screw mornings.