February 7th, 2011


(no subject)

The sun is burning cigarette holes in the film of my dreams and your clattering about in the kitchen sounds like the whole damn world is coming to an end. God, how I truly hate f*cking mornings! I hate waking up next to you, but it’s just that I just hate waking up, truth be told. The “next to” bit falls between the cracks of my mind that is shattered to the tiniest little pieces. And the fact that you whipping eggs sounds like a herd of wild animals stampeding through the kitchen just crushes up the little pieces of my consciousness into even finer dust. Your lascivious wet lips parting over my face to kiss me good morning make me want to give you toothpaste for Valentine ’s Day. I can even wrap it. Though I suppose it really shouldn’t come as a surprise.

This whole thing just feels like a job: trying not to tell you to go to hell when you are roaming around the house, all sunny and bright, calling out “good morning” so excitedly it’s not even natural; trying to not let you see me look at another girl; calling when I’m supposed to; saying the right f*cking things when I’m supposed to. It’s a whole f*cking 9 to 5 without overtime or performance bonuses.

Obviously, an omelet is not a good enough treat for breakfast. You have decided to also treat me to a bit of your vocal stylings. And now I dream of precision aimed earthquakes, hurricanes, cyclones, or some other handy natural disaster that would allow me to go back to sleep. But no, you are far too f*cking excited about the sun in the sky. Is that even normal?

I struggle to open my eyes and call you.

And then your song is cut short.  There is a momentary vacuum, and whole world crashes into it.  Those were not your lips parting for a kiss. This is somebody else making me breakfast in the kitchen. And now, these are somebody else’s eyes slapping me across the face with silent accusations. And I hate mornings all the more.