8:05 a.m. - 02/08/02
a day's just a thing to get through.
Urgle.
My mom has this really annoying theory that she can tell when I'm asleep and when I'm awake by how much noise I make upstairs. So I tested her this morning. When she emerged from her bedroom and said "Good morning," I squinted suspiciously and said, "When did I wake up?"
"Around 4," she replied, and I smiled, malicious in my glee.
"1:45!" I announced, then, realizing that this is not the type of thing one should be happy about, I returned to scowling. At least she's put in her parental place.
The morning proceeded with relative irritation. At breakfast I managed to spill cold, not-yet-mixed oatmeal all over the microwave. I started to clean it up, muttering expletives, and my mom said, "Why don't you use a paper towel so that you don't have to deal with it twice?"
Well, I hadn't been planning to deal with it twice; I'd been planning to sop it up sufficiently and leave the towel on the counter for someone else to deal with - such is the nature of the typical teenager I am. Anyway, it made more sense to me to clean it up with paper towels than to get bawled out for leaving a towel there, or to wring it out as she apparently expected (jeez) - so I gathered the one paper towel remaining on the rack and a stack of napkins. Slowly, I dug oatmeal from crevices I swear did not appear in the microwave until the mug tilted.
I then made my second bad decision of the morning (the first being that oatmeal would be a good idea on this very cold morning in this very cold house). I decided that it would be easier to lift up the glass bottom of the microwave and clean the oatmeal-water that had miraculously managed to get *under* there if I picked up the little plastic plate-cover deal (which looks kind of like a flat-based bowl of the top of an oddly shaped hat) and set it on the counter. I carried it toward the counter and it of course, leapt out of my hands and landed on the Evil Tile.
Again miraculously, it did not break. It did however spill oatmeal goo and resigoo all over the floor. So now I had to finish cleaning the microwave, clean the floor, receive my Klutz of the Year award, *and* not lose my mind. My day was shaping more than I wanted it to.
So I clean up more oatmeal-ick and I now have a stack of napkins and paper towel that look startlingly like the stack of kleenex and paper towel that used to accompany back when I made messes every day, three times a day, into little bowl-like objects...and of course, the oatmeal-to-liquid ratio was similar to have eating it with say, half a diet 7-up? which I rarely did, but let it suffice that it looked *enough* like manifest-bulimia to make me very very tired.
Then again that could have just been that I woke up at 1:45...and lay in bed for five hours trying to sleep.
Five. Hours.
Needless to say I ate Raisin Bran. During breakfast I managed to smack my spoon out of the bowl into an 180-degree arc which had significant acrobatic merit and also spilled a significant amount of milk. So I cleaned that up, too, at which point the phone rang to inform me that my Klutz of the Year award had been upgraded to a Klutz-of-the-Century nomination, which for some reason did not give me the thrill it might once have...and *still* had to finish the stupid breakfast that was far more trouble than it was worth.
After I was finished, Mom proceeded to inform me (for the first time) that we are having people over *tonight* at 7:00. Waah.
The only thing I could feel good about was that no one was around other than Mom to witness this display. To rectify that and provide significant shame for the experience, I have posted it for the amusement of masses and the chagrin of humanity.
In other news I have decided that I exist in terms of air pressure (i.e. the only thing that keeps me from im/exploding is that the same amount of pressure that is weighing down on me externally is building up from the outside leaving me in a state of tension but inable to release it) and that I no longer a human form. I think my cells would move around if I touch them, that they would form openings, and knives could slip in and out as easily as a toothpick into cake. I'm doing my best not to test this theory.
In simpler terms, I have no mouth and I must scream.
chord
"I'd rather be dreaming than thinking/ thoughts are small comfort to me/ dreams might be pretend/ but at least dreams end/ and I just can't stop thinking, you see/ thoughts are small comfort to me..."
-Loudon Wainwright
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