Originally Posted: 2005-03-29 10:23am

Masturbator vs. The Alarm Clock

The rains were coming down again. I made my way to my coffeeshop sporting the best bedhead ever. Misbehaven hair, I curled under the covers this morning, snoozing 10 times, unable to get out of bed. First alarm, I'm half awake and hit the big flat button on the top of the clock and I lay, listening to the rain. It's no real surprise that I find my hand inside the waistband of my underwear already, resting on my belly. The snooze is exactly 9 minutes. I always contemplate how far I'll get before I'll have to stop and hit the button again. There is some strange universal force that makes it impossible for me to hit the clock with my left hand. I just cannot do it. I am limited in my coordination skills. I come close and the loud piercing beep starts and it sounds like the hosue on fire, a smoke detector gone maniacle, a screaming baby. I let go and slap the button and the room is quiet. Girls have to work so hard for it. Sometimes its back to square one. Completely. 9 minutes. It's a race against time. It's the wall between the day I want to have and the day I will end up having. I can do this. 9 minutes. I have the best sheets despite the fact that they are white. I made a horrible mistake in wanting the white, looking so clean and crisp and inviting. A girl like me can't own white sheets. Who was I fooling? I had to purchase a new white fitted sheet this weekend. I go through fitted sheets like underwear. They rip and tear. They stain easy. They cannot withstand the abuse, the constant washing, the bleach. I'm working hard for it this time. The fear of the alarm going again is big. I turn my head to the right and look at it. I must beat you. My arch nemesis is a tiny box of technology invented to cut your time into pieces, chunks of life, reminders of things you must do outside of the bedroom. The weight of my down comforter is heavy and suffocating. I kick it off, but I keep the top sheet over me, liking the softness of it against my legs. All praise the almighty thread count. The alarm screams almost with me and I roll and smack the top of the clock again. I will defeat you!! I am William Wallace, face paint and all. After a torturous week, my drive is back with a vengeance, and its pushing me into an alternate reality. I have the libido of an 18 year old boy. Don't hand me anything, I can't be held responsible for what will happen to it, where it will disappear to and if you'll ever see it again. 9 minutes. We've gone into overtime. There cannot be another tiebraker. It's win or lose. There should be a trophy involved. Or a belt, like the Heavyweight Champion belt all wide and covered with bling. Someone should grab my wrist and raise it after the bell rings, like Rocky Balboa, all glistening and swollen, grunting, screaming, Adriaaaaannnne!!!! Someone should drape a cape over me when I'm finished and I'll hobble away like James Brown being caught up in the rapture, tiny steps as he mumbles and the band gets quiet as he nears the exit off stage left and then rips full blown into the almighty horn section of god as he throws the cape off in one scream and his head is thrown back and he is back and the audience goes wild with him, all stomping feet and crazy hands in the air. Someone should be there cheering me on, pom poms and short skirts and pig tails. Be Agressive!! B-E Agressive!! This is my turf. Just who do you think you ARE alarm clock? Visitor. Intruder. Your bleachers are empty. The wind whipped the trees outside and they tapped against my bedroom window violently. One would think it was applause. Standing O-vation. Standing Ooo-vation. Standing O--. Then the buzzer. I let it buzz for awhile, too busy speaking in tongues and throwing pillows, too busy digging my heels into the mattress, pushing myself against the headboard, crawling away and clawing my way inside out. I kick my bookshelf and rattle the picture frames and candles, sending random cd cases flying through the air. My alarm clock falls face first onto the hardwood floor... and dies a quiet death. Yeah. It was hard to get out of bed this morning. More so than other mornings. this is in or around SF

post id: 65985393

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