Chap 2

Mornings were the worst of all.  Sunrise was inevitable, birds start singing, everyone starts moving around; you didn't ask for it and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.  It's not so much this day you are mad about, or that you will have to get up and do things, it's just that nobody ask you.  It's just how it is and that's just how it is and fuck you, either get up and deal with it or be a loser.

Gramma is at the door saying words, she will come back several times and say more words when she realizes i have sunken back down into the wonderful folds of sleep.  Each time the words are louder and harsher, each time my reply is also louder.  

i almost can't help myself, the drug of sleep has me in her sweet comfy palms.  I do consciously try to rise to consciousness, but she speaks so softly and my mind losses focus and settles back into sweet unconsciousness. The gentlest of breezes moves the curtains of my room, sweet thoughtfeelings caress my sleepy mind and i give into them, drifting back down into pure unconscious... Again my gramma at the door, fuck!  "Ok ok, I'm up"

There is nothing quite as bad as mornings.  This must be how newborn babies feel, yanked from there mothers warm, comfy bodies, out into the bright light, loud noise, people looking at them and touching them.  The fucking shower water is never right, too hot or God-forbid, too cold.  Clothes never fit right in the morning, itching and pressing and touching you.  Sometimes it takes a good five minutes yanking around my briefs cause  i just couldn't get them right; too tight, too lose, touching me.

Of course breakfast must be eaten, at least in this house.  My gut is empty and dead, wanting nothing to intrude.  My mouth is dry and my tongue is unimpressed with the oatmeal, despite the raisins. Of course some morning-person has rushed loudly into the kitchen and banged around every pot in there to produce a huge breakfast spread for all to enjoy.  How is it that you have to eat when you don't want to eat?  Fucking breakfast

"Are you excited about being in fifth grade? Gramma chirped.

"Elated." i grunted.

Words like elated always caused her to have that look on her face, not quite sure what it meant, she rolled it over in her mind and tried to decode it's meaning with whatever context clues i had given her.  She had made it until 9th grade in some shitty little country school, until she had to quit to help her dad with the housework after her mother left, at least that was the story.

"Now don't be rude, Mrs. Davis is very nice, I'm sure it will be a fun year."

"Right."

People being nice was sometimes unbearable.  Trying to say just the right thing to cheer you up or whatever, but always hitting the wrong nail with the wrong hammer.  She thought that the Sun would brighten my whole life with the revelation that this was going to be a 'fun year'.  Fuck.  Usually the person trying to be nice had no idea what the problem was and said something so obtuse it made things worse.  OMG, i was just about to stab myself in the eye, but since you broke the news to me that the coming year will be fun I gues i will put down the fork, eagerly eat this fucking tasteless oatmeal and put on a big fat smile and be happy.  No.

"I gotta get my stuff together."

"But you didn't finish your oatmeal..."