So Call Me Maybe?

So here's my number

7:00 a.m

I groggily sat up after I practically smashed my irritating alarm clock. Good thing I purchased one of these bad boys. I've broken my last two phones because I swear, once I hear the phone's damned beeping, the most rational thing for me to do is to throw it 300 feet away from me. The satisfying sound of the broken gadget splattering to its impending doom was music to my ears. Sue me for wanting to sleep in.

So here I am, pissed and awake. I checked my alarm clock, its digits telling me that it was 2 minutes past 7.

"Fuck. I hate Mondays."

I begrudgingly got out of my warm covers and was planning to shuffle my way into the bathroom. Well, that was my plan, but since it's fucking Monday, I tripped on my laundry basket. Before I can say holy-fucking-shitballs, I face planted on the cold floor of my apartment. Great. Just great.

"How the fuck did that basket get there?"

I pushed myself up and rubbed my bruised forehead. I eyed the obstacle that was the reason for my misfortune and kicked it. Yup, that's right motherfuckers, I'm a badass. A string of cuss words flew out of my mouth as I walked to my bathroom.

I was greeted by the reflection of my scowling face and the beginning of a really bad bruise forming on my forehead. Turning the faucet on, I washed my face, brushed my teeth and tried to shave. Keyword, tried. I felt the growing scruff on my chin and scanned the sink counter for a razor. No luck. I rummaged through the cabinets and did not find a single razor. Of course I ran out of razors.

Whoopty-fuckingdoo, James.

Letting out a disgruntled moan, I gave up and just proceeded with my morning routine. You know, fix my hair, put deaodorant on...take a shit. What? Everyone shits.

7:40 a.m

Once I was all dressed, (you know, a navy blue dress shirt and some slacks, the usual work outfit.) I pocketed my phone and wallet, grabbed my laptop case and headed out.

The humid weather of lovely Manila slapped my face as I made my way to my black infiniti g37 convertible. It felt like it was calling out my name. My fingers played with the car's key and I pressed the unlock button. Once settled in, I drove off to work.

8:20 a.m

"Dammit. Holy fuck. The hell is this traffic. Shit."

A variation of that same phrase was repeated all throughout my drive. I was going to be late for work. I knew that the usual traffic flow of Monday mornings in Manila was inevitable. I would've left earlier if I didn't wake up so pissed. I tapped the sides of the steering wheel as I impatiently waited for the red light to turn green. The constant honking and shouts of angry drivers echoed in the background. Yup. Just a typical Monday morning in Manila. I checked my wristwatch and I let out another disgruntled moan. Fuck. I was going to be at least 15 minutes late. I tapped the sides of the steering wheel faster as I repeated the phrase "come on" like a mantra.

Since I was so engrossed in the stoplight like I was having a staring competition with it, I didn't notice the gray Toyota Camry rolling up next to me.

Maybe it was my sensitive hearing or maybe the owner of the Camry was playing his or her music too loud, but I started hearing the faint sound of Justin Bieber's "Love Yourself."

"'Cause if you like the way you look that much

Ohhhh baby you should go and love yourself.