See that bed over there? I'm not getting back into it. I'm going to WORK instead. I'm physically getting into my car and leaving this house, driving to another location, getting out of the car, and working. Hey, look, working-class. I love all of you. You keep the apple pie on my kid's table and you keep America alive under the leadership of a potential canidate for King of the Apes, but can you guys just take a load off and start your steel mill and office jobs at, say, noon? The paperwork DOESN'T have to be filed at 5 in the morning. Guys, the SUN isn't even up.
You know the Bob Marley lyric "rise up with the morning sun" or some other ganja-fueled inane garbage? Well, Bob's full of shit. It's not fun to do. That's why he's dead.
Hi Erin! I'll be working with you this morning and if you read this at your work today, you can know that I'm STILL WORKING. See, it's a 9 hour shift! I'm still in the store! If I wasn't crying by the time you left work, know that I will be eventually. Our tips may go up, but I'll lose the respect of my co-workers, which I will promptly ignore and forget about when I use my tip money after work to buy a bottle of rotgut whiskey and drink myself to an "early sleep" in my room with the lights out and the entire Aphex Twin catalogue on repeat. That's like Grandma's Recipe for Insanity Cookies right there. By the time my next morning shift comes around, I'll be merely a husk of a man who doesn't need sleep to function, but instead just a steady supply of low-grade narcotics and whole wheat bread. So try to talk to me today, you incredibly limber linguists, since I'm going to take my frontal lobe out in a gradual onslaught of booze, sleep deprivation, and abusive music. It's like a roller-coaster ride that's only half-finished and on fire. See you at the end, kids!
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Jared