If you could bottle the mental energy I expend just opening my eyes every morning, you could power the fucking world and I’m not even joking about that. It’s morning again. It’s always fucking morning. Every fucking day, like clockwork. Anyone who says they don’t enjoy routine is a goddamn liar because nobody ever complains about the sun leaping out of the sea like a surprise party time after time after time. Nobody ever says ‘Look, dude, we’re not surprised. Really, we’re not. You’re nobody’s friend and you’re not invited.’ Everyone’s all ‘Oh my god! The sun rose again!’ Like it’s a big fucking deal! Everyone is a moron.
I slump to the mirror and stare at my face. My skin’s gone to battle stations but it’s going to have to sort its shit out because I do not negotiate with terrorists. My nose has invested in some new blackheads for the season and it won’t listen to me saying that they look shit on it. Hey nose, fuck you. I throw water on my face like they do in the commercials, not because it’s actually refreshing but because these things must become tropes for a reason, so I’m clearly just not doing it properly. I live in hope that I will eventually splash my face right and then some sort of magical caffeine drip will install itself in my skull and I’ll flounce about exclaiming about how beautiful nature is or some shit.
I sit at the counter with a bowl of Weetbix and there isn’t enough milk. There is never enough milk because Weetbix is the most absorbent substance in the goddamn universe. My dog meanders around my feet and stretches out on his fat pink belly and reaches his paws as far away from each other as he can. He looks at me, as if to say ‘Life is long and so am I.’ And then he winks at me, one wink each eye. My dog is very wise. I bet he won a Pulitzer or something in his youth that he isn’t telling me about. He’s also very modest.