My day began at about 4:25 this morning. Bladder was full. I convinced myself that it was fine and to just go back to sleep. Sooo tired. Maybe just a sip from my trusty bedside water goblet (Barnhardt’s tend to dehydrate, dontcha know…). I slowly reached for the cup and misjudged it’s location, situating my grasp 2 centimetres too far south. My fingertips began to push the cup over. In my dopey state I figured the corrective measure would be to grab the cup… with the same hand that was causing the trouble in the first place. This only resulted in tipping it more quickly. As the Smurf-blue BPA-rich plastic cup tapped on the 15-year-old Zellers bedside table, I briefly thought, Whew! No spill. Guess the cup was empty after a… and then I heard the torrent of tepid water splash down onto the hardwood. That’s some pretty good comedic timing you’ve got, gravity.
I paused, for a moment thinking maybe I’d dropped enough water to mingle in with the power outlets nearby and maybe, just maybe I’d be electrocuted and put out of my misery, thereby avoiding having to clean up this mess. But no such luck. I stood up to waddle my fat ass to the bathroom to fetch a towel. As I did, Maude, the 15-year-old cat that looks like she’s 3 let out a meow of curiosity. My response, because my reflexes are just as much of an asshole as their master, was to smack her in the face. Felt guilty for a second… felt amused for 3 seconds… and continued on to grab a bath towel and returned to sop it up. Then back to bed, all the while trying my best not to look at the time on the clock, lest my overactive brain start doing calculations about just how much sleep an obese almost 40-year-old fatty needs vs how much time was left between that moment and the 7 am alarm multiplied by just how much I hate myself… shit. It was 4:25. My eye caught a glimpse. And so I rolled around for the next hour before a combination of rage, back pain and numbness in my legs exhausted me back to dreamland.
Alarm went off at 7. Shut it off and closed my eyes. Opened them and it was 7:37. Son of a whore. Alright then… quick shower, get on the road, Tim Horton’s breakfast, work. Done and done.
A day of work, experiencing varied amounts of satisfaction and frustration and a quick poop before leaving. I got the end stall. You know, the one with the toilet where you have to hold the handle for a 5 count to get your poop to go down. The one with the good 7/8" gap between the door and wall so if someone really wanted to see the horror of me browsing The Chive on my phone from the horrific angle where you can clearly see my stomach rests on my thighs and cuts off the circulation to my legs. The stall where, when someone uses the freshly installed hand dryers by the sink, the occupant gets a little off-draft of uncomfortably steamy air under the stall door and up his pant legs. That one.
Home. Cereal for dinner. A chilled Guinness. Few episodes of Game of Thrones to get me all caught up. Off to bed, but had to stop in to write this. I can’t have you not knowing that I punched a cat in the face today.
Wait, punch? I thought you said “smack”?
Nope. More of a punch.