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The Morning Of

On the first day of daylight savings time, I was sleep-hungover. Not a good position. My alarm clock started nudging me out of bed what seemed to be an hour early. I was so exhausted, it almost didn't bother me that my clock was waking me up by playing a Yoko Ono song. (A few years ago, I had the idea to put my alarm clock beyond arm's reach, and program it to play a song I hated. Why doesn't everyone do that?) Tried-and-true; no one can sleep through that howling. I ripped my face from my pillow and shuffled to the cursed thing. I put on my pink bunny slippers and bathrobe. I didn't plan on a shower that morning, so I just wore it for the softness factor. I slumped at the kitchen table and made a sound that resembled such of a dying elephant; a cross between a groan, a moan and a whine. Interesting combination, really. When I was this tired, breakfast seemed like rocket science. Even cereal. When you think about it, cereal has very precise calculations. If it's too milky, there's half a pitcher in your bowl full of crumbs that needs to be drunk. If it's not milky enough, you get spoonfuls of dry cereal. See? Rocket science. I decided on toast. You can't screw up on toast; there is one step: toast. Yay for simplicity! That is the reason that I was eating a single slice of dry toast in my bathrobe, half-asleep. My family were all still asleep. "We don't need alarm clocks." they said. "We wake up the same time every day, no matter what." To that I say: HA! It's not all bad. If they had woken up at the same time as me, I would've had to listen to my brother, Arnold, rant about something he had thought up in his sleep. My parents would always be encouraging him. They've lost all hope in me doing something with my life, so Arnold gets all the love. Whatever happened to 'littlest first'? I finished my toast and went back upstairs. They were all still asleep. I smirked, thinking of why they didn't have alarm clocks. I sat on my bed and looked around the room, kicking off my bunny slippers. It was still mostly decorated the way it had been five or six years ago. The only differences were the updated books on my shelves and more posters. I even have the Hello Kitty statuette I painted when I was four. Ugly little thing. I walked over to the said statuette and picked it up. It looked like Hello Kitty a little. I used to be so proud of it. Now, it's an eyesore. I put it back down and sighed. It's Saturday and I have nothing going on. Nothing planned. No friends to hang out with. No pets to cuddle. No new books to read. There's only so much time I could work on my cross-stitch. Maybe I'd work on it more than I was expecting that morning. I would, I decided. It was a beautiful pattern, and I couldn't wait to see it finished. I removed my bathrobe and pulled on some jeans 3 inches too short along with a striped t-shirt. It wasn't an outfit, but who cared? I turned on my mp3 player and plugged it into my speakers. It played a happy tune by The Doors: Easy Ride. What an accurate description of my upcoming day. I pulled out the box containing my cross-stitch and pattern. I stared at the picture I was turning into a cross-stitch. It was a picture Disney had released in 1990, when Jim Henson died. It was of Mickey Mouse with his arm around Kermit The Frog, who was crying. It's a really touching piece. For a few hours, I just worked on Mickey's head; it's just so big! Halfway through the second ear, my eyes were starting to go blurry. Staring at squares and little x's for that long would make anyone's eyes blurry. I put down my cross-stitch and checked the time on my torturous alarm clock. Noon. Arnold would be out playing hockey or some fool thing like that. He eats really early lunches so he has the most un-interrupted time possible before we have dinner as a family. I walked down the stairs. All my drowsiness had worn off since breakfast. My mom spotted me before I could check if the coast was clear. Curses.

"Regina! Where have you been all day?" Mom asked.

"Working on my cross-stitch and listening to The Doors." I said. She seemed satisfied by my answer. She turned back to her knitting for a moment.

"Regina, come sit." She ordered, patting the couch cushion beside her own. I sat.

"Regina, your father and I have been talking..." She started. Aw, crap. I thought.