Welcome to Surreality
When you wake up in the morning, there is a set routine. At least there is here. I stare at the ceiling, willing time to move slower. I'm often amazed at how accurately I can gauge the passage of minutes, even when I'm not checking the time. But inevitably time marches forever on. And so I have to get up. I can dread the day, or welcome it and knowing me, I usually dread it. Its just how I am. Kevin once asked me if I was suicidal, along about when Gin dumped me. I smirked and said, "Only in the morning." Mornings are a singularly useless relative construct. A sunrise isn't as nice as a sunset, invariably. Executions are carried out at dawn. Are these coincidences? No. Mornings should be banished from our collective consciousness. They are an affront to sex dreams and those early morning wanks at the very least.
The next stage is of course the morning shower. Duck yourself under cold water and be rudely shoved out of sleep, or duck under warm water and make it so you really want to climb back into bed. These are your abhorrent choices. Then, towel off... shave the eight little rogue hairs on your chin off. Make your presentable to a world you have zero interest in facing, full of people who make the bottle look like a sultry lover. Do your work... play nice with the other children... be nice to your sister!
Yes. Mornings are an affront to civilization. I wonder how many wars have been waged between politicians who got less than their full measure of sleep. Ah, and why do armies always march or attack at 'the crack of dawn?' Hmm? Think about it? It must be to harness all that pent up rage at having to wake up. Trust me, battles of No Quarter are the result of a substantial lack of REM sleep. You-Know-Who must have been a flipping insomniac.
So why... WHY when I woke up this morning was I in a good mood. I generally detest perkiness in the morning. I was tempted to hex the nearest 'morning person' many a day at Hogwarts. And yet I just caught myself chirpily saying 'Morning!' to Argus Filch of all people. I even pet the kneazle of his, Mrs. Norris. This is bad... this is very bad.
I blame a slightly husky, five foot, four inch Hufflepuff who... yes... dare I say this... I slept with last night. Oh this is bloody inconvenient. He's going to turn me into a... a... I can't write it! A person that looks forward to the day. Wheres the nearest firing squad? Execute me. I deserve it. I am perky. I'm drinking a cup of the world's most God-awful coffee and I'm beaming fondly at a sunrise. Put me down for a very slow, very painful death.
Its been a long time in coming. I keep feeling happy and dare I say more than just horny when I look at him. I laid there, spooning around him last night. We didn't shag. We snogged a lot. And Merlin forbid, I was actually content with his body laying against mine. We didn't need sex. I suspect we were both so tired from his ordeal and finally seeing each other and we lost that adrenaline tap we'd been on... or at least I'd been on.
He admitted he was scared. I tried to put on a brave face for him, but I was too. My first actual boyfriend and I... that sounds utterly bizarre of course. Ernie Macmillan is my boyfriend. Lover. Daresay... partner. I don't much care for that word. Lacks punch. Anyway it all highlights this utterly bizarre and surreal world I have suddenly stepped in.
When I wake up, I don't want to stare at the ceiling. I want those last precious minutes back so I'm pressed hotly against a certain someone... or else discovering new parts that either: 1) Make him cackle insanely. Or: 2) Make him loll his eyes into the back of his head. Do you have any idea how erotic Ernie sounds when he groans? Its like... the Aristotlean ideal of music.
When I got into the shower... what was I doing? Thinking about him. I stood in front of the mirror and I actually cared about my appearance enough to do something serious about it. Why? Him.
I fear I'm going to have to destroy Ernie. He's changing my world.
The next stage is of course the morning shower. Duck yourself under cold water and be rudely shoved out of sleep, or duck under warm water and make it so you really want to climb back into bed. These are your abhorrent choices. Then, towel off... shave the eight little rogue hairs on your chin off. Make your presentable to a world you have zero interest in facing, full of people who make the bottle look like a sultry lover. Do your work... play nice with the other children... be nice to your sister!
Yes. Mornings are an affront to civilization. I wonder how many wars have been waged between politicians who got less than their full measure of sleep. Ah, and why do armies always march or attack at 'the crack of dawn?' Hmm? Think about it? It must be to harness all that pent up rage at having to wake up. Trust me, battles of No Quarter are the result of a substantial lack of REM sleep. You-Know-Who must have been a flipping insomniac.
So why... WHY when I woke up this morning was I in a good mood. I generally detest perkiness in the morning. I was tempted to hex the nearest 'morning person' many a day at Hogwarts. And yet I just caught myself chirpily saying 'Morning!' to Argus Filch of all people. I even pet the kneazle of his, Mrs. Norris. This is bad... this is very bad.
I blame a slightly husky, five foot, four inch Hufflepuff who... yes... dare I say this... I slept with last night. Oh this is bloody inconvenient. He's going to turn me into a... a... I can't write it! A person that looks forward to the day. Wheres the nearest firing squad? Execute me. I deserve it. I am perky. I'm drinking a cup of the world's most God-awful coffee and I'm beaming fondly at a sunrise. Put me down for a very slow, very painful death.
Its been a long time in coming. I keep feeling happy and dare I say more than just horny when I look at him. I laid there, spooning around him last night. We didn't shag. We snogged a lot. And Merlin forbid, I was actually content with his body laying against mine. We didn't need sex. I suspect we were both so tired from his ordeal and finally seeing each other and we lost that adrenaline tap we'd been on... or at least I'd been on.
He admitted he was scared. I tried to put on a brave face for him, but I was too. My first actual boyfriend and I... that sounds utterly bizarre of course. Ernie Macmillan is my boyfriend. Lover. Daresay... partner. I don't much care for that word. Lacks punch. Anyway it all highlights this utterly bizarre and surreal world I have suddenly stepped in.
When I wake up, I don't want to stare at the ceiling. I want those last precious minutes back so I'm pressed hotly against a certain someone... or else discovering new parts that either: 1) Make him cackle insanely. Or: 2) Make him loll his eyes into the back of his head. Do you have any idea how erotic Ernie sounds when he groans? Its like... the Aristotlean ideal of music.
When I got into the shower... what was I doing? Thinking about him. I stood in front of the mirror and I actually cared about my appearance enough to do something serious about it. Why? Him.
I fear I'm going to have to destroy Ernie. He's changing my world.