The alarm clock drops like a small little mouse armed with small little chopsticks pounding high pitched digital beats into your temple two hands at a time. Who dropped their mouse into the hands of time and told him to run in a wheel in a line? The repetition of snooze buttons turning over justifications on the logic of in the next eight minutes I will discover the calculus of God seconded by fuck it, pillow, until finally the need to piss prompts the stand up character into animation.

The first thought is ugh and the first word is fuck. Who wants to start their days saying fuck? You turn grateful you remembered to set an alarm clock at all then angry you are wasting your gratitude being thankful for a commanding authority. It sits like an accidental prayer after swearing off all forms of it years ago the structure remains. Looking in the toilet bowl for memories.

 

Memories of a better time. Last night.

 

Memories of anticipation. What do I need to do today and how late am I for it? Pay me by the hour pay me less for it. I take my own benefits. Our morning prayer. Please don’t let anyone close enough to smell the smoldering ashtray on my breath or at least make them sufficiently passive-aggressive to keep judgment to themselves. I don’t even smoke. Please don’t let my clothes reek of pot, I kept them in the other room until I was finished and put on deodorant. Please let toothpaste and mouthwash and the green tea’s antioxidants and the Gatorade’s electrolytes do their jobs better than I do, the chain reaction of free radicals rehydrating. Take from me this nausea, this thirst, this deep hurting, and hunger. Leave in its place a sausage mcmuffin and V8. Replace the hollow ringing filling my head with the clarity of co-workers’ words spoken to me, help me to understand and act on them, ignore all misery. We ask this desperately, through a body of bloody wine, our asshole provider of days off. No man.
 

MATT CLIFFORD

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