The Bad Morning

You got up early because you had a bus to catch. This wasn't particularly easy, because your brain isn't happy with you. On some level you've been feeling anxiety lately, probably because your life is going better than you expected. Life is actually going according to the plan you came up with. But things aren't going so hot for a majority of people you know.

Something like 65% of your friends on facebook aren't having an easy time of things, and just over 50% of your twitter feed.

No good, you thought to yourself as fell asleep last night.

Your brain, being about a subtle as the Westboro Baptist Church at Arlington Cemetery, has felt the need to remind you that your life isn't that bad. In fact it used to pretty terrible by most measures, and perhaps you should put a little thanks giving in your step.

So every night this week your brain re-edited your child hood memories. One night, you were a juvenile infiltrator of a sweatshop factory that appeared to employ victims of Vatican indiscretions. Another night your middle school was run entirely by Cthulhu worshippers. Another time you were just unspeakably evil and killed several people with your bare hands, in grade school. That'll teach you, says the brain, It could always be worse.

This groggy feeling follows you onto to bus, where you just silently listen to guys you usually talk with more in the morning on the way to your mutual stop. You just nod your head and grunt in agreement with everything they're saying.

You leave the bus without saying goodbye, and you'll probably hear about that if you see them that afternoon or tomorrow morning.

Remembering you only have one extra pair of socks, you stop into the Rite Aid, knowing they stock them even if they are overpriced.

It's just past six a.m., so there's no crowd when you walk in, but the Beegees' "Night Fever" is playing, and you instantly feel as though you've partying all night despite going to bed at before seven last night.

The music make it hard for you to think. There's a buildup toward the chorus that fees like the song's going to some where, with a grinding guitar tense vocals and then . . . the chorus is just crap. Falling completely flat of the promise made by the guitar, dropping it all together in favor of some syrupy drum machine crap.

This used to be party music. This used the new hotness, you think. You find yourself wondering if you'll ever hear "Juke Joint Jezebel" in a Rite Aid at just past six in the morning.

Probably not you think, realizing that KMFDM never got so popular as to be played to death on the radio, so it won't hold that nostalgic comfort that most radio from the 60's and 70's does. You finally decide on a larger pair of ladies athletic socks, because who cares? You know damned well half of things that are marketed by gender are just that, marketed.

Who decided women's shirts button up a different side? Are more women left handed or something?

You pay for your socks, take a deep breath and go to work.

Thank god it's Friday.

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