THE jarring noise punctured my eardrums, pierced into my subconscious and destroyed my lavish sleep and picturesque dream.
Damn! I hated alarm clocks.
I flung out my hand and slapped quiet the one blaring on my bedside table. Then muttered a curse against it—damned inopportune object!
I stayed motionless. Eyes closed. Breathing spaced. Waiting for sleep to return.
It did not.
I mumbled another curse. Waking up ritual was done. So I flung aside the old curtain that served, and very well too, as blanket and hurled my legs down the side of the bed-frame. I yawned, scratched my face, rubbed my eyes and hauled my body up to my feet.
I hated mornings. Even more than I hated alarm clocks. It topped the list of my one trillion and one most hated things in the world. Mornings—Menace. Same definition.
I shuffled into the bathroom. It was a tiny room I had carved out of my bedroom because I hated the trouble of having to walk down the hall just to have a pee, do the major, or do my constant battles with water.
Yeah, that last statement should tell you. Bathing made it into the one trillion and one most hated things in the world list. And it came top twenty. Used to be among the top ten but after dating my last boyfriend—a major asshole—other things took up its place and it went down the list. Might still go down, for I just started dating again and he’s looking like he’d beat Dipo on the asshole pecking order.
Probably should dump him.