I wake up half an hour before my alarm. I’m usually pretty good at timing out my REM cycles, so when regaining consciousness isn’t coupled by the obnoxious BLEEP of my alarm, I expect to feel tired.
I don’t. Just angry. And ready for breakfast.
I don’t even bother to shower. I just throw on my work clothes, slather on some deodorant and spray enough cologne to choke a room full of small children. My hair is a mess, so when I put my hat on, I turn it counter clockwise a few times and give myself one giant cowlick.
Walking downstairs, I can smell bacon. Breakfast is ready and waiting on the table, spread out across three large platters. There’s the meat, which my nose was right on the money about, a couple of fried eggs stacked on top of each other and some toast. These are my dad’s signature breakfast sandwiches. My stomach decides I’m not so angry with him that I won’t eat one or two and my mood is so terrible, poison from my mother would be welcome to try me.
No one comes around as I eat my breakfast. It makes sense that I wouldn’t see my mother, but I figured I’d get a few minutes with my dad before I went to work. Once my stomach is full, I decide that I really did want to talk to him, rather than just at him. The realization has me quickly gathering my things and heading out to work. Even if I don’t get a chance to talk with dad, I feel like delivering some pizzas. I need to feel in control of something.