I woke up. My alarm blasted in my ear. 6:20 AM flashed in pale neon green font in front of my half open blood-shot eye. Time to get up.
Like Hell. I moaned in my head since my words came out as a hollow, pained groan like I had woken to a stab wound in the throat, rendered unable to articulate. Anyone who'd choose such a wretched hour to rise on a Sunday was either an orthodoxed clergyman or else a practiced nimrod.
Some people like to wake up early. Myself, I'm no early bird. Never have been. Au contraire, I'm the type of person to agrivatedly slam the snooze at least a good twenty times. Once I finaly crawl out of bed a few hours later, half the day is waisted, I'm already pissed at the world, and I begin my daily routine by half-heartedly quoting my resolve to wake up earlier from now on that I know for a fact in the recesses of my mind I never intend to abide by.
Motivation: What? Is that a word because I'd love to know the definition. Perhaps it's burid somewhere beneath the chaos that is the stacks of paperwork sprawled out on my desk.
I move from my mattress over to the desk, swearing as my knee knocked the edge when I roll my chair out to sit down. Then as I stumble backwards, my chair and I flip over whilst the chaos erupted onto the floor.
Well, back to bed it is. Was my first thought as I lay agroof on the floorboard blanketed in loosed-leaf and manila folders. For a second I began to contemplate falling asleep on that spot and drowning in my own blood so at least it would all end painlessly. (Though I guess the injury was compensation for the "painless" part.)
Somehow-after inexplicably dismissing the notion-I hoist myself off of the dusty floor (It hadn't seen cleaning in a month; go figure.), shove a Kleenex from my desk up my nostril, naturaly choose not to acknowledge the mess around me, and through my pitiful endeavors manage to flick on the monitor before me. It took only a few seconds for it to warm up and my start up screen appears with a prompt screen in front of a background of my sister and I from our vacation in Paris
taken in front of our hotel.
User: Janette Lyner
The curser hovers over te Next button. Instead I decide to hit the Enter key on my flat gray keyboard. That's one thing I love about computers; even when prompted to do one thing, you do another and yet it still gets the job done all the same. They give you options instead of orders. Plus, a machine doesn't argue with your decisions, so it's much easier to cooperate with than humans.
See, one thing I hate is taking orders. Following instructions has never been my forte, which is the punchline to the fact that I had served in the Military for seventeen years. I consider my virtually nonexistant work ethic the primary contributer to my continued (lack of) success and inability to move up in the world.
"Coffee." I said to no one in particular seeing as I've lived alone in my single room apartment for nine years, making me a ripening 43 years old with no children and no money to my name. Every month I just manage to squeeze by on my rent by cutting back on air conditioning, warm showers, and protein. It's rather complex living simply on carbohydrates.
Golden light penetrated my room in rows through the curtains. Thanks to the Sun, I could afford to deprive myself of electric lighting, since I certainly can't afford to use it.
Next to my bed is a night stand holding a portrait. The silver frame depicts two serpents coiling their body up their respective side. At the top roosted an eagle proudly flashing its massive wings. Every time I look at it it becomes more and more reflective of my life.
I envision myself as one of the snakes. Mainly the one on the left as it is slightly lower than the opposing one, and I just so happen to be left handed, so do the math.
Despite all efforts, whoever ges to the top fill will only be eaten by the eagle anyways. Part of this may subconciously be half the reason I'm never in a rush to make it anywhere.
Within the frame is a portrait of my late husband and myself on our wedding day. He was in the Military at the same time I was, five years my senior. various circumstances had brought us together, and by various circumstances I mean me having one (or three) too many drinks one night and him driving me back to his home and sleeping on the couch so I could nearly vomit on his bed. I had known him before, in Elementary School but we never really talked. I guess our quick
marriage was sort of our way of making up for the time we missed back
Next week is our would be 22 anniversary. (We got married around my 21 birthday.) Eighteen years ago, he was driving home late, around 11:00 to 11:30, and someone had he "bright idea" to run a red light. All I got was a phone call telling me my husband had died in an accident. I tried to file a lawsuit, but lost the case because there was no evidence supporting that it wasn't my husband who ran the red light because the only witness out on that particular road the night hadbeen hammered.
Lifting the coffee pot, I carefully pour it into the white mug that is probably about the size of a closed fist. Remembering yesterday, where I slipped and had the "pleasure" of hot coffee burning my hand and staining my jean, I'm being extra cautious to avert another tragedy. I never ad anything to my coffee, as nothing could be more bitter than my attitude in the morning. Standing at the window, I stare up at the sky and wonder when this day is going to end and when, if ever, my life is going to change.