A bed is something you should enjoy jumping into. It should be that one place you want to linger in in the morning and if you share it, it should be with someone you love jumping in bed with.
The air was dark and thick. Runnels of some sort of liquid ran slowly down a window pane then dripped in great globules to the ground below. The ground trembled and cracked and the same sort of liquid on the window pane bubbled up from the cracks. Thick like honey it crept along like some sort of malicious blob until it all collected in one great pile. There it shifted and pulsed in one great mass until a body began to take form inside the darkness. The liquid contracted and shuddered once more before draining away with a light splash into the cracks from whence it came. The body left behind spluttered and gasped pushing itself up on its forearms. A shaking hand pushed back a long shank of hair and the body’s voice spoke out, “Tyranny is born.”
The alarm goes off at seven a.m, it’s voice an irritant that shakes me from the arms of Bradley Cooper to the land of the living. Meep, meep, meep, meep, meep, MEEP!
I cringe an slip naked from my bed to hit the snooze, having learned long ago that no, my legs were not, in fact, long enough to reach across the chasm of the end of my bed to the table on the opposite wall. Half-asleep me is always so hopeful.
Having turned my snooze on I slink back under what’s left of the scattered covers on my bed (seven…Northern Ontario can be so chilly in the summer).
Just as I’m settling back into the downy arms of super Cooper the alarm blares on yet again! And this time Mom adds her shrill voice to the din, “Theo! Theo get your lazy butt out of bed! If I’m up then you sure as hell better be up!”
Mom’s even less of a morning person than I am. I’d say it’s a genetic thing but my sister Meg is the exception to the rule on that one. She lives to torment me.
With a cross between a growl and a moan I exit the sanctity of my bed and turn to my closet. Having worked at a clothing store for the last three years I now had a collection that prepared me for any scenario I may be forced to meet.
I sniff tested a few things before I settled on a pair of yoga’s and a mustard coloured sweater. I said I worked at a clothing store. I make no claims to style.
Blearily I use my finger to slash on some yellow eye shadow and then drew a thick black line with a permanent marker across my top lid (I had run out of eye liner a couple of days before and damn it…Revlon is expensive for a student…and God forbid I use the cheap stuff).
I slicked on some mascara and then zombie walked to the bathroom where I brushed my teeth with eyes closed. I may have been drooling slightly because when I opened my eyes my sweater had a splotch of tooth paste on the left breast.
I groaned and spilt some more. Finishing my teeth with my eyes open I quickly rinsed and then ran to my room and changed into a black long sleeve with a Fantasia tee over top. (There’s another half dozen hunks to dream about).
I stumbled down the stairs and turned into the kitchen where Mom was sucking back coffee like a hooker on a big date. I grabbed my bag from the floor and made to walk out the door but mom’s voice (like Smeagle on ice) stopped me.
“Theodora Carter I know you’re not heading out that door without breakfast.”
“Mom I’m going to be late. Besides I’m not even hungry.”
“Sit your butt down and eat some damn toast!”
Was there ever a more tortured daughter in all of the world? Breakfast is my least favourite meal and the dry toast stuck in my throat so that I coughed and sprayed crumb missiles all over mom’s new table runner.
And she just sat there with a creepy ass smile on her face and said, “Now don’t you feel better?”
I am a sad, sad little person. Y’all need to go to google straight away and get hooked! It’s June the 9th and there is an interactive guitar…and for someone who completely blew at guitar lessons (no…no there is NO double entendre) I am having so much fun! I forgot what I was looking for in the first place!
…God I hope it wasn’t important….
The random housekeeper is the girl who spoils her manicure tearing the top off a box of soap chips just before she sees the OPEN HERE in large letters over the spout. She set her automatic oven with a sure touch- the time it is to start cooking and the time it is to stop cooking- then forgets to put the food in. (The Rh factor is one which neither the packaging people nor the manufacturers have so far been able to lick.) And she uses her dust mop periodically, when the planets are in their proper configuration and when she can remember where she left it the last time.
Her heart is in the right place, but she is an impulsive little thing, that’s all, and when it comes to housekeeping, she’d rather being doing nearly anything else, and she generally is.
“The I Hate to Housekeep Book”