Sometimes I wake up ecstatic to be alive. I take a deep breath, savor the imagined scent of roses, hum a peppy tune, and prance out the door ready to conquer the world. Days like that are what it’s all worth. Nothing can get me down. No one can make me frown. Not even a clown. And I hate clowns.
Today is not one of those days.
Turtle poop was the essence surrounding me as my subconscious prepared for the interminable “ennk ennk ennk” of this awful contraption named Casio that saves my ass every morning. Rolling around the room like a bowling ball on a lane with bumpers, I finally made my way to the loo and submitted my morning deposit before shaving. A shower of extremes was what I had to look forward to, only redeemed by the sexy smell of Adidas body wash.
Off to work I went. A muggy tromp quickly turned into a typhoon shuffle, surely meant as some sort of altruistic gift by the gods. My pants didn’t see it that way, so now I’m sat here in a puddle of cold, acidic rain that’s only serving to add one extra shade of sapphire to my rainbow of a day.
