Tuesday, November 29, 2016,
living room, Freshwater.
4:12 AM: I woke like any other morning
which means my eyes opened
my voluntary muscular system switched on.
This time.
Slowly.
But it wasn't like any other morning.
I woke up in the living room,
lying on the floor
next to Gunther, my dog.
He's not doing well.
He's old
and I spent the night with him.
Mostly.
5:24 AM: Woke up again next to Gunther,
cold and sore after disappointing moist dream;
went upstairs to bed for another 165 minutes.
Whatever 165 minutes later is:
Woke up, got out of bed,
dragged a comb across my head.
Somebody spoke and I went into a dream.
7:12 AM: Drove to work
knowing how many holes you need
to fill the Albert Hall:
12,347,023. Plus or minus.
8:47 AM: during my morning constitutional,
I noticed:
Catastrophic Trouser Failure.
Colleague saw me leave the
East Genderless Restroom
in the basement of House 54 at
8:53 AM with stapler in hand.
I moved cautiously through my day
not wanting to rip my metallic stitches.
9:12 AM: Over the last 7 1/2 minutes
I have flicked 17 ants off the top of my desk.
2:40 PM: After carefully maneuvering around campus
and getting through my day without exposure,
it was time to go home—but not quite yet.
The file uploaded that my students needed NOW
was corrupted and inaccessible.
Workarounds ensued.
Another day at the office.
3:54 PM: The black army has arrived.
My desk is aswarm—
anticipating their conquest—
my desk has fallen.
4:47 PM: Arrived at home.
Used PBS to relax.
9:03 PM: Moved on to Brandy.
Better.
non-fiction
