I wake up from a dream about Shel, where he was despondent over something and I could not console him because I had to spend an hour digging through dirt looking for the catch to a brand new necklace.
I sit up, eyes wide open, totally awake. My keys. I have no clue where my keys are. I have my car key, because I gave it to the window guy the other day, but the rest of my keys....clueless. I need them to get into my office. Was my dream telling me to dig through dirt? If so, too bad. I ain't digging anywhere this early in the morning. Shel? Do you have my keys?
I am awake and exhausted and it's on 5am and I am thinking about how many hours it is until I can get back into bed. Why is it I want to sleep only when I can't? When I do finally crawl into bed at night, I want to be anywhere but there. But during the day, all I want to do is crawl under my desk and take a nap.
I started three different posts this morning. One about how I hate waking up to another day with W. as our president. But it was too depressing to write. Another about death and destruction and our planet slowly eradicating itself, but I'm not in that frame of mind. One about...well, I don't remember what that one was.
I am not obligated to write here every morning. No one is going to come knocking on my door to arrest me if I haven't posted some drivel in this spot before 7am. But it has become so ingrained into my routine, so much a part of my day, that it would seriously fuck up my psyche for the day if I did not do it. I am a slave to routine. If I left this spot alone one day, I would be walking around like I had an inner ear infection, off balance and crying in pain.
Sometimes my strict adherence to a schedule of events annoys me. What if I want to make the coffee last, instead of first? What if I want to open boss 1's office door, then boss 2, instead of boss 3, 2, 1? I think I would need to lay down, that's what if.
So I write here, even if it's only a meandering series of words designed to look like coherence but is really just filler. I write here because, even though I have nothing to say at the moment and I'm sure I will have a plethora of things to say later on, it is 5:30 am and I must get on with the rest of my morning list of things to and the order in which to do them.
Tap.Tap.Tap. My fingers drum on the desk as I pour over CNN and Newsday looking for stories to sink my teeth into. There are a ton of them. But they all make me alternately angry or sad and I don't feel like doing that right now, not with my eyes half closed and my brain 3/4 closed and my fingers working so furiously to type this nonesense in, and who am I to not listen to my fingers as they tell me I do not want death and destruction and the demise of clean air and skies today. They want frivolity. They want gibberish. Well, they got it.
Did you know that I hate carbonation? I don't drink soda. The only time I will take just a few sips of soda is when I have pizza. Because soda and pizza, they just go together. Like open toe sandals and summer. Like Radiohead and a rainy day. Like ramamlamaramalamaramalamadingdong.
A small victory: more filler than a fat-free hot dog.
Gotta find my keys.