It’s Definitely Not Sunday Again

Monday morning starts off with my alarm working perfectly.  Apparently I am not.  Never heard a sound from 5:45 am when the alarm began it’s attempts to arouse me, until I actually woke up (primarily because it was so damn bright in my bedroom) at 8:30 am.

As I rush around to make coffee and gather my wits, my non-working or going to school 17 year old, (who will be working by Tuesday, AND enrolled in an online program or she’ll be lacking a house and food) strolls out of her room in a perky mood, looking beautiful and well refreshed, asking if she may have some coffee while humming a tune.  Why does this make me hate her more than I already do?  One can infer, I have my own reasons.

Now it’s 11:45 am and I’m still attempting to ingest enough coffee to lose the puffy eyes and co-workers are microwaving their lunch, making the whole place smell like food – yuck!  Half my day is missing and I’m trying to catch the hell up.  And write about it.  Because writing about it helps.  And takes up more time.  And I work better under pressure.

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