Typical Morning

Original Form: Typical Morning

I wake up and find my cup.

It's not too hard to find, just hard to get at from amidst all the crap since it is seated in the far corner of the ledge before the window.

I think to go over to my draws to get the bottle of Jack Daniels from amidst the sheets where it is buried, debating whether or not to have the last of the Single Barrel and get that extra 7% or just go with the old No. 7, but I just look down for a moment to see that I, quite wisely, left the old No. 7 by the side of the bed, all one and three quarter liters of its sweet taste. I let it pour for a third of the glass, a glass that must be no more than two or so cups, and then go and get my Nalgene of iced tea to carry another third of the way. The cinnamon I find in the very front of the ledge, right behind my pillow and drop in a new stick.

I trudge downstairs, eyes refusing to stay fully open, and find the ice tray filling the cup nigh to the brim with ice- it must crash upon the rocks to get a rockin'.

Lastly, I find the vanilla extract. I hold it for but a moment above the glass, desiring but a bit, but somehow it always seems to slosh more than I would have designed but it always tastes good, so why argue? Maybe its just the amount I want and I don't know it? I'd probably get too much if I went for it myself.

I come back up and, now then, I must find something to play. Jazz, gotta be jazz and gotta be good and gotta be good and loud. Besides, it ain't like its quite time or some bullshit like that anyway.

Gotta be Bob James. Probably from "All Around the Town." Ah, I know, "We Are All Alone." It doesn't sound like people make Jazz out to be, it’s funky and crazy but it is kinda Fusion anyway so I'll give them that.

But, boy, it’s poppin' and it’s crazy.

It’s crazy. Why the fuck is it six fifteen on a saturday evening and I have only been awake for fifteen minutes?