Lost in Thought

Chapter 1

I hate my alarm clock.

Not in the way that most people hate their alarm clocks, either. Most people have that "someone's got a case of the Mondays, har har" feeling with their alarm clocks where they groan about having to get up, but don't really hate it. But not me. No, I have a visceral hatred for my alarm clock. I want to tie it to a chair and watch it weep, delivering vicious right hand after vicious right hand until it can't make that sound anymore. I want to put a burlap sack over it and water board it, listening to it give me information I hadn't even asked for as it pleads with me to stop, gasping and panting and gargling. That's the kind of hatred I have for my alarm clock.

I smack it a few times to get it to stop with that awful noise, internally debating whether or not I should just whip it at the far wall and watch it explode into the most glorious faux-fireworks show anyone had ever seen. Stupid brain didn't like the idea and convinced me it wasn't the right idea. What does my brain know anyway?

The battle with my brain continues as I ponder whether I should get out of bed or just quit my job and drop off the map, disappearing onto the road with nothing but a bindle and my thoughts. My life would be like that Metallica song. I could eat beans over makeshift bonfires, learn to become a quality pick-pocket and slowly become the overlord of the homeless, commanding them to do my bidding and creating a giant throne of garbage like the one in "Spawn". Then I figured I couldn't tie a bindle, not in a way that would make me look like this cool, mysterious drifter, and my stupid brain won out again. This has become a daily occurrence and my brain always wins out. I'm starting to really dislike that guy.

Dragging myself out of bed, there couldn't possibly be a soul more hateful than I am right now. To say that I am not a morning person would be the understatement of the year or possibly the century. I'm barely a fan of other people or places when I'm awake and fully functioning, but when I'm groggy, tired and yearning for my bed, I'm practically unapproachable.

Sauntering into the bathroom, I don't bother with the light. I never bother with the light in the morning. It's just another of many things that bother me when I've just woken up. It's hard enough to get myself out of bed as it is but flicking on the lights is like getting smacked in the forehead with a brick. Just blinding light short-circuiting my senses and aggravating me even more. I start to piss, hearing the sound of splashing water. I'm mildly relieved; sometimes that sound doesn't come instantaneously and I have no real idea where I'm pissing.

I flush and move over to the sink to brush my teeth, apply deodorant and do all the other stuff that normal people are supposed to do to not offend each other's senses. Not that I'm complaining, really, it's just that I don't want to even exist at 6:30 in the morning let alone be moving around and doing things.

My dog Hulk is staring at me when I re-enter the bedroom. Half shepherd, half mastiff, Hulk is still reasonably sized despite all the warnings from vets and passers-by that he'd be bigger than the moon before I knew it. That was partially why I'd named him what I did. It made for easy conversation. Oh, what is he? He's shepherd-mastiff. Yeah, he'll be living up to his name in no time. Har har har we all laugh.

The lights are still off, but I can see his face in the combination of moonlight and street light that bleeds into the room. He can't talk - if he could, rest assured I'd retire with a fortune on the back of the world's first talking dog - but the look on his face is telling me that he thinks I'm stupid for being up and about right now and he plops his head down as if it were of great inconvenience to hold it up any longer. Can't say I disagree with him.

After sloppily picking out an outfit that I consider just appropriate enough to not earn me the ire of my superior, I quickly get dressed and head into the kitchen. I open the cabinet, trying to decide which awful processed food will take another few months off of my life today. The cup of instant noodles wins out and I briefly try to convince my brain that I can take the day off, that I've got plenty of time off left and that maybe a day off will get it on my side about the whole drifter thing. After a hard-fought battle, my brain convinces me to go into work. He and I are growing to be bitter enemies.