Morning people creep me out.
There’s just no other way to say it. If you’re the sort to “rise and shine,” then I’m pretty you’re also the sort with one or two dismembered paperboys in your cellar. Paperpersons? Newspaper carriers? What’s the preferred nomenclature?
The point is, I have never once, in all my years, woken up and been happy about it.
At best, I wake up with a vague idea that I slept reasonably well, and I can find the coffee pot on my first try. Usually, though, I wake up wondering what more I can do to this body to keep that sort of thing from happening again.
Don’t get me wrong–it’s not that I want to die in my sleep any time soon. Rather, it’s more that should it happen, I won’t miss the first hour of my day.
It’s an awful, awful time, marked by cups of coffee swallowed while still scalding hot, and the smoke from as many cigarettes as my lungs can absorb without turning into jerky.
And people trying to talk to me.
I’ll never understand that. And by “that,” I mean “words,” when I’m still trying to boot up.
Why do people even still try?
Until I’ve got half-a-pot of coffee in me, and had a good hour, hour and a half to get both eyes open, there isn’t a prayer in hell that I’ll a) understand what you’re saying, b) care what you’re saying, or c) remember you even said it.
And the only way my early-morning mental capacity could be more obvious would be if I dropped my coffee mug, and shuffled toward the nearest family member while groaning: “Braaaaaaains…”
Seriously, let the caffeine and nicotine clock in, turn on the lights, and get the machines going before you try interacting with me.
If you don’t, neither one of us will be happy with the results.