Some days you aren't going to win.
It's a work day. Your alarm goes off and it can't be time yet. It's too fucking early. You swear to God that you just went to sleep like 2 hours ago. You get up out of the tangle of sheets and comforter when your pillows fall off onto the floor. You step on one and the mushy material against the smooth and soft floor cause you stumble into the bathroom. You begin to pee off a night's worth of urine and for a moment rub your eye and hear the sound of your stream hitting the toilet rim and splattering onto the floor. Damn it. You finish your business and grab a handful of toilet paper to try and wipe off the toilet and floor. You're not an animal for Pete's sake. The girlfriend might be over tonight.
In the bright light above your bathroom mirror, your eyes are screaming at you with tears that feel like sandpaper. You contemplate just going with your glasses today but for some reason, in a fit of stubborn will, decide to force small pieces of flimsy gel contacts into your eyes. You wince in pain at the mirror and see your hair. A fucking rat's nest is sitting on your head and you begin to doubt your capability in making yourself a presentable human being today. But, you push on washing and grooming your hair because you somehow preformed this miracle yesterday.
It's time to go to the closet, a clusterfuck of collared shirts and neutral-colored slacks. You've tried every combination of grey, black, and khaki pants with practically a rainbow of shirts. You pick out a shirt that you like, but realize that you've probably worn it recently and so rifle through patterns and colors of something that looks like it hasn't had 'worn' attention in a while. Once you find one, you realize that you've spent too much time figuring out your clothes situation and grab a pair of one of your hundreds of black dress socks and slide on a pair of pants that are who-knows-what-color because at this point, you better get a fucking move on. After belt and shoes are applied, you grab the usual things that belong in your pockets and look in the mirror one last time and promise yourself you'll fix whatever is already fucked up once you get to the bathroom at work, and shave your face when you get home today because you were too tired last night to do it and you are already a little behind on your morning as it is to stop now. Maybe no one will be looking for me first thing in the morning at work. Please.
You notice your shoes are scuffed to the rugged texture of rawhide, and then curse under your breath that you were supposed to remind yourself to shine your shoes. Whatever. Fuck it. In the kitchen you begin your routine of making a fruit smoothie, there's one banana left but it looks like a piece of a tree branch. You peel the slimy bastard anyway and put it in the blender while reaching into the freezer for a handful of strawberries. Now the milk. It's a new carton of course today, so it takes a little longer to open it up and dump it in with the fruit. You begin to fill up your water bottle under the fridge filter and press the blender on. You walk away and grab your 30lb laptop bag and throw it over your shoulder, because you glanced at the stove-top clock and saw that you only have 13 minutes to get to a destination 20 minutes away. You hear that the blender is stuck because you put too many frozen strawberries in. You crank up the setting to 'pulse' because shit needs to happen, but you have to hold down the entire blender with your hands because it would probably fucking take off into your ceiling with the blades rotating so hard.
Your breakfast is made, you fill up a portable cup with your slop and grab your keys from the tray on the counter. You hear water splashing onto the floor and realize that your water bottle is still under the filter, and is creating a nice looking pool on your kitchen floor. Just like you always wanted. It's just water, so you figure evaporation will do its shtick and flip off the water on the floor. Take that, water. Locking your door and walking away, you notice something missing in your stride. You take a few more steps and ask yourself why there's so much space on the right cheek of your ass. Realizing that you forgot your damn wallet, you curse again and turn on your heel back to your door and unlock the door. You fly back to your room to grab your wallet, which was neglected for a reason that philosophers will never solve because it was right with your phone and work ID badge--all of which made it perfectly on-board your person. On your dart back through your kitchen you see that magazine with that article that you left out specifically for work every day to show your buddy. You've forgot it for so long that it was now 2 issues ago, and tell yourself that you might as well bring it now. With your hands full you go back outside to lock your door, you struggle to juggle the bag that feels like it has a child in it, which is now sliding toward the edge of your shoulder with a cup filled to the brim with cold breakfast, while holding a magazine with a death-grip in your other hand you pick your keys from your pocket with a creative leg-lifting maneuver.
For some reason your key chain seems as complicated as a janitor's, and once finding the right one you lock the bolt, but not before the bag has slid off of your shoulder and abruptly down to your forearm. The sudden jolt of weight has shaken your hand violently-the hand holding your breakfast. It slops onto the wall of the apartment, your door, your pant legs, your leather shoes, and the floor--but who gives a shit about the floor. Incredulity is your state. The key is still in the lock so you practically kick your door back in, throw down your bag, magazine, but spare the cup your wrath because well, there is still some breakfast to be had in there. You grab a sponge and 50 paper towels to clean up the mess outside your door before dabbing your clothes. Thank God you chose black slacks. You reach down and recover your strewn belongings because by Zeus' dick that magazine is getting to work now after this. You see the green digital lights of your stove-clock again and see that work is starting in 2 minutes.
Locking your front door and heading to car you convince yourself to accept the fact that you are late, and begin to muster a litany of excuses for why. At this awkward point, you aren't going to be making it "a little late" but not long enough that you can say something drastic happened on your way in. There was traffic on the way in but that's not unusual, and not even really worth mentioning as anything to deal with. You constantly stare at your car clock as the minutes burn away along with the exhaust from that fucking bro-truck sitting in front of you in gridlock. You then consider that that probably no one is going to ask you where you were anyway, which is one of the the first things that you put trust in that morning. Once you get into the office, you realize that like anyone else that comes into work first thing, you just want to be left the fuck alone and to check your email.
You sit down and finish the last gulp of your smoothie, when you look down and realize that there is a crusty white stain on your pants with tiny strawberry seeds.
