Morning, You Don't Know My Life.

Go ahead and crow, you son-of-a-bitch. I see a fried chicken dinner in my near future.

I stood up my hairdresser this morning, and not because these grey scragglies on my head don’t need some serious attention. Gack. I just should never have agreed to any near-dawn dalliances, and by near-dawn, I mean before 3 P.M. The only A.M. I like is in the single digits less than 6. I go and go and go like that pink, battery-shilling bunny until 4 or 5, while the rest of my side of the planet falls or flies or realizes that they’re naked in public or whatever else folks do in their sleep. On the occasions that I do surrender to the sheets when it’s still dark out, I thrash about and sigh like a factory machine until I either exhaust myself to sleep, or get back up and slink around like a burglar in my own home.  

Mornings used to be all the rage before electric light sources were discovered, and I get that. Peeps starved if they didn’t grow or shoot their food, and plowing or aiming wasn’t so accurate after sundown. But the last time I checked, light bulbs got invented two-hundred and thirty-fucking-two years ago. Why are we still on farmer time? 

The world is such a better place at night, except for the shit that happens because asshole criminals know they can sneak around in the dark like the cowards they are. Mornings just flat-out suck ass. The light is all glare-y, illuminating my not-youngness, so sex— or at the very least, fondling— is a much less likely option. There is all this mania, unlike at night where no one has to rush-rush-rush to be somewhere on time unless he/she is an ER doc or a hooker. And there’s so much noise (not just the sound kind) that even a deafie like me ends up with daily head-jangle. I much prefer night where there’s a kind of hush all over the world, thank you, The Carpenters.  
  

I think I can trace this life-long twilight restlessness back to something having to do with my mother because everyone knows that everything wrong with any of us is our mothers’ fucking fault.  Probably. Or maybe I just like doing in my passive-aggressive way the opposite of what’s expected. I don't know. Maybe I can find some clues the next time I’m dreaming. Which, of course, won’t be tonight.