I Have This Condition.

Time goes by slowly when my eyes lids are at half mast. I feel like levator palpebrae superioris must actually be Latin for “time continuum adjuster”, when in reality I have no idea what either term means to begin with, or probably how to spell them correctly. It’s something I was miraculously able to make room for in my memory. I put it right next to the 80’s song lyrics, top shelf of course. I would never store medical terms on a lower shelf to get dripped on by Depeche Mode. That’s a mental health code violation.

While wallering in bed in the mornings, post alarm buzzing, I use my levator palpebras to make the snoozing phase last longer. I know that the lower I adjust them, the slower the time goes. This provides me with at least an illusion of more rest, delaying the inevitable of actually going to work. The problem comes when I shut my eyes completely. This triggers the automatic consciousness shut-off valve. Once closed, this valve cannot be reopened until the alarm goes off again, or worse, until I am already late for work. So obviously I have become a master at this game of balance between having my eyelids completely closed or open enough to feel like I might actually need to go to work.

I do need to go to work usually. After two and a half years at a place, your bosses might actually need your presence for something undoubtedly more important than that extra hour of sleep you would kill your best friend’s dog for. There have been days though, however unfortunate they may be, that I have taken off work to kill that very dog. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not lazy, just motivationally challenged, or maybe challenged motivationally, or perhaps neither and I just need motivation by being challenged in general. That was not the best sentence I’ve ever structured. I would go back and fix it, but I’m too lazy.

I once slept a little too late. I think it was precisely five minutes late, just enough so that I knew I didn’t have time to shower and get to work on time. So I spent another eight minutes in bed deciding whether to sleep for a few more minutes and just go without a shower, or to take a shower and be a few minutes late. By the time I decided, my levator snapped shut, and I was rendered unconscious for the better part of a work day. And so you see the game of Russian roulette that my mind plays with me. My eyelids are a Kovrov with one round in the cylinder, one sweet, sweet round of laziness.

An Introduction.

I exist in a filthy world of vast 3D virtual landscapes, with rivers of red ink that flow through paperwork jungles. It’s disgusting. My mind aches for a more genuine reality on weekdays, but once Sunday rolls around, I crave that familiar sound of humming printer cartridges and the smell of burnt generic coffee. I don’t know why. I hate coffee, Folgers to be quite specific. It’s the gasoline of coffees. People drink it because they don’t take the time to figure out that there are better, affordable alternatives. My hatred of generic coffee is a metaphor for my entire existence.

I’m not here to discuss coffee though. I’m here to discuss everything and coffee. Besides, I don’t drink regular coffee. I only drink the iced, gay kind with flavors. It’s because I’ll never grow up and drink the real stuff. Like when children pretend their root beers are real beers and try sitting with the adults at the poker table. They yell when everyone else is yelling, and they laugh at what they didn’t know was a joke to begin with. I try hard to pretend my grande grasshopper is real coffee, but I know it isn’t. And I know that everyone else knows. I’m paranoid like that.

I fight the urge to yell and laugh with the masses on a daily basis, but sometimes I find it difficult. It’s so much easier, you know, to just give in and watch American Idol. But then I’ll be automatically placed in some sort of category with the guy I work with who fills his desktop calendar with hours of sitcom and reality TV scheduling. I fear the categorization of myself. I know it happens, but it’s just an unpleasant thought to me. Culture anyone? I’ll take the “sub” prefix, thank you.

Welcome to this.