Same Old, Same Old

I wake up.  I was dreaming about staying home from work today.  And now that I’m up, I think I might do just that. 

I’m lying in my bed face-up, my usual position when I wake.  I think my subconscious perceives my forthcoming arousal while I’m dreaming, and grants the ceiling fan entitlement with my eyes in the morning. 

Its endless, stagnant revolutions tell the story of my life.  I execute the same monotonous circle every day: Get up, go to work, and come home.  Should I get up today?

I need to get away from that fan.  I turn over and see the Rubik’s cube on my bedside table.  Psychologists say that if you do a puzzle or two when you first wake up, your mind will be more alert the rest of the day.  Well, my mind doesn’t exactly define the word ‘alert’, but I suppose that’s my fault.  I’ve exhausted the secret to that cube over ten years ago, but I repeat it every day anyhow. 

I need to get up, but my heart permits otherwise.  I used to be different.  I used to feel guilty when my only accomplishments for the day were a cooked breakfast and a marathon nap time.  That old rag rung itself dry long ago, however, and I’m done feeling guilty. 

Who am I kidding?  I make conversation with myself about household objects.  I suppose if nothing else, my ceiling fan life preserves my sanity.  Just like yesterday and just like tomorrow, I carry out my morning rituals and head to work. 

I start with my spent Rubik’s Cube, dress in an old, wrinkled work uniform, head downstairs to fry another egg that I probably haven’t even digested from the previous morning, and rev up my rusted car.

Word Count: 296!