In the morning, a beast inhabits this body. She pretends to be human, pretends to be me but she is, in fact, a crazy demon bent on destroying my life.
It is very hard to make it worth it for that hellion to exit the snuggly tangle of blankets and cushion. Even if the night before I set an alarm specially designed for a joyous awakening, knowing that it is vital for my body to be up earlier than noon, even if I go to bed with the best intentions, the monster that opens my eyes will always hate me, resenting my attempts to assuage its rage and tearing through even my best-laid traps with sheer lack of will and Sleepy Logic. This particular brand of logic only makes sense to one half-asleep and utterly uninterested in rising to greet the day. Up-and-at-'em Clare thinks: 'My hair is greasy, I'll need to get up half an hour early to shower tomorrow.' Morning-time-Frankenstein Clare thinks: 'Fuck it.' And hits the snooze. Repeatedly.
I feel like Catdog sometimes. Dog doesn't want to abandon the safe and comforting haven of bed and will put it off so much that Cat won't have time to brush the nasty fungus off his teeth. Dog bites the postman (or, in my case, punches her sister in the face) and Cat suffers the consequences.
It's a conundrum of the highest degree.
The worst part is that she holds power over my favorite time of day. The morning hours when everything is new and clear are such a good time to be up, taking advantage, enjoying. I've always envied early risers but have never been able to join their ranks because of this stubborn, selfish bitch inside me.
The freak must be leashed!
...maybe tomorrow.
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