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It’s Nine AM; Do You Know Where Your Blog Is?

Folks, here I am, writing this in what I consider the ‘wee’ hours of hte morning. The actual wee hours are when I get most of my shit done, so trust me when I tell you that eight fricking thirty o’clock is not my friend. This must be what boot camp is like. The horror.

But as a writer, you never know when the muse will strike, and mine belted me a solid one across the chops, apparently, as I lay sleeping a few minutes ago. She wasn’t thoughtful enough to leave me a topic in the welt or anything, but that’s not unusual. Muses are like that. Lousy shiftless mythological bitches.

Of course, the main drawback to writing so early in the morning is the same issue with doing anything before a reasonable hour like noon — I’m likely to hurt myself. Of all the bumps, bruises, scrapes, nicks, owies, and tongues stuck in dangerous places with live electrical currents that I can remember, the vast majority have happened before I’ve had a chance to shake off the sleepyheads and get my wits about me.

(No, that doesn’t explain the black eyes, the headaches, the swelling, the nausea, the exhaustion, or the tongues stuck in dangerous places without live electrical current.

But that’s only because nighttime has the decency to include booze, chicks, and parties, to keep you entertained. Morning could learn a whole lot cbout ‘customer service’ from nighttime.)

(And who am I kidding? The last time I had my tongue stuck in anything interesting, it was when I bet the dog I could get the last Vlassic slice out of the jar without using my hands. I accidentally snorted pickle juice and a hamburger chip into my lung. She won a Milkbone. Welcome to my life, folks. Glamorous, no?)

The fact is, nothing much good ever happened between six am and noon, as far as I can tell. That’s when you get out of bed, not into it. That’s when you go to work, not leave it. You eat bran muffins, instead of nachos. And you wake up with that three, after you went to bed with a nine.*

(* Previous statement could be taken in a number of ways. I suggest you choose one, and stick with it. This is not a sentence to be wishy-washy with.)

For most of my adult life, I’ve tried to avoid mornings altogether. I treat them like a bad illness, or a conversation about ‘feelings’, or an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond‘ — I’ll just sleep blissfully through it, and somebody wake me when the fever lifts and the credits roll.

Of course, the ‘day job’ overlords tend to frown on that sort of thing. And — seeing as how I need money to feed my booze and tongue salve and dill pickle habits — I’m obligated to spend time in their dungeons at their whim. Which usually involves ‘the morning’. Overlords can be very cruel, when they put their minds to it.

So here I am, up and awake and groggy like a raccoon in Ted Kennedy’s trash can.

(See, that’s political humor, apparently. That can’t possibly be mine. I don’t know how it got there; I shouldn’t even be awake yet, dammit.

Mostly, it’s drinking humor, really, but Ted Kennedy fell into it somehow. I’m guessing he has a lot of that sort of trouble in the mornings, too. I feel ya, Teddy.)

But I’m ‘fighting the power’ with this post, you see. If I have to be awake, then I might as well do something fun before slaving away at the office, right? And writing is fun, dammit. Never mind that so far, I’ve bumped my head on the monitor, rolled the chair over my foot, and gotten a nasty paper cut from the ‘k’ key — this is still worth getting out of bed for. Barely.

Now, if I can just manage to negotiate the shower without impaling myself on the shampoo bottle, maybe I’ll see you again at a decent hour. Happy morning, folks.