Morning

It’s 10:53, and I’m sitting at work in my grouchy pants.

I’ve had a large cup of coffee and I still hate everything. I hate the computer, I hate my desk, I hate that I will probably be filled with more hate if I have more coffee because I will still be grouchy but jacked up on caffeine.

Like being hyperactive but having to sit and listen to a seminar about conversion rates with bar graphs and stupid shit I don’t care about. I don’t like bar graphs. I don’t like graphs in general.

I hate Facebook, with happy morning people posting stupid little status updates about how the morning is filled with rainbows and love exploding out their butt, and how it was so amazing that their puppy licked their face when it was time to get out of bed and feed him and how they’re glad to be alive. I hate my job, I hate the stapler, I hate that I have “Just Dance” by Lady Gaga stuck in my head, I hate stupid coworkers that ask me how my day is going or how the ride into work was or STUPID FUCKING QUESTIONS. Everything is stupid.

I am not a morning person. Never have been, and probably never will be. When I was little, my two cousins and I would spend the weekends at my grandmas. Saturday morning, they would spring out of bed like hyper little groundhogs at 8:00. They would try to get me up, but even when I was 6, I knew 8 in the morning was too damn early. I would try to sleep in, and they would repeat what I’m sure their parents told them… “It’s not good for you to sleep in. You need to get up, make your bed, go potty and wash your face.”

1. I never washed my face in the morning… Or made my bed for that matter.

2. I might have had to go potty, but I was not ready to face that reality yet.

3. … STFU.

Finally, after trying to take off the blankets, jumping on the bed, tickling me and being generally loud and annoying, I would crawl out of bed. Of course, they had already made their bed, went potty, washed their face and brushed their teeth. WTF kind of kid does all of this in the morning? I certainly did not. I blame my hippy parents. (Ok, I really don’t have hippy parents, but I don’t know what else contributes to hating the morning with a passion and being lazy.)

Grandma had graciously made us pancakes and juice. They would slide into the chairs at the breakfast bar, pick up their forks, and anxiously wait for breakfast to be served to them. Their hunger must have consumed them every morning. I would slog my way from the bedroom, through the hall and into the kitchen. The bar stool could have been 8 stories high – I wasn’t awake enough to even consider how they had gotten up there so quickly. Must have used their happy little morning unicorns to fly up there.

Sneaky.

After climbing to the top of breakfast bar peak, I was presented with the food of the morning and juice. I was not hungry. I should have still been sleeping. I picked up my seemingly 10 lb fork and attempted to shove bits of pancake into my mouth, while feeling deeply sorry for myself. Meanwhile, the princesses of the morning were anxiously digging into breakfast, like they had been starved for days on end.

It’s now 11:54. I have had “time to wake up”, have done some work, and I still think the world is stupid.

I want to be curled up in my wonderful, wonderful bed.

Instead, I am confronted with sitting at my desk, feeling sorry for myself and stewing in my caffeine-stimulated hate-filled black hole.