WARNING: there is some cussing in this post

A lot of motherfucking shit can befall your mind in just a day.

In the morning (if you’re a morning person) you can be amped and LALALALA, ready to take on the world, full of ideas and vigor and gusto and you’re ready to kick ass in general.

I’m a morning person.

I go to bed by 11, wake up by 5 or 5:30.
Usually I hop out of that Goddamned bed. HOP. I beat the alarm clock every single, stinking time. I am usually the one who wakes the alarm clock. Many times I’ve already started making breakfast when I suddeny hear the clock beeping away in the bedroom and I have to drop whatever I’m doing in order to go switch it off.

Why do I do this?
There is no harm.
Am I afraid I will wake up the old, crotchety neighbors?

But still I run and do it. Rush back to the kitchen and continue stirring my oatmeal or whatever else I’m cooking on this wonderful fucking morning.


Dude. What in the world is up with instant oatmeal.
I ate that shit for years. Realized in my dawning years of pennypinching miserliness that instant oatmeal is a ripoff. A ripoff.

And I started doing some demented non-financial type of cost/benefit analysis. I experimented by buying one of those large tubs of Quaker Oats…the kind that holds enough oats to keep North Dakota regular for a month. I ate that shit for breakfast, I cooked those oats from scratch, baby.
And discovered…

Freshly cooked oats taste at least 5,000,000 times better than the instant microwaved garbage.
And it only takes 5-6 minutes. That’s not really so long is it?
Is your time that valuable?
Are you that slow?

C’mon, we all have time to spend 6 minutes making a wonderful bowl of steaming oatmeal.
When all is said and done, I realized the benefits (money savings, taste) exceeded the costs when it comes to preparing fresh oats for breakfast. The costs you may wonder? More dirty dishes, an extra 4 minutes prep time, and the extra (miniscule per serving) money spent on brown sugar and cinnamon (in my case).
Traditional Quaker Oats meal, 1; instant Quaker Oats, 0.

Everything is Goddamned motherfucking instant. Quick.
It all began with the microwave.
Speed up cooking time.
Speed, speed, rush rush.
We are a rush society.
We need it done yesterday!

I hate fast. I hate fast people. Well, I don’t hate them, but they bother me.
People who walk fast, talk fast, eat fast, drive fast, Goddamnit, they probably shit fast.
Dude. Chill. Take it easy.
One day I will do a magnificent post about the Rush Society.
Magnificent I tell you.
Well, not magnificent.

Fuck magnificent.
Who says? Magnificent to me, is surely not to you. Or most of you. Judging by that visitor hit meter. Hahahah!!
I think a wonderful trait is the ability to laugh at oneself.
That bespeaks something.
Not sure what.
But it does.

I’ve always been a wonderful self-joker.
Shitting on myself.
Poking fun at myself.
Yes, you wanna tear me down? Don’t trouble yourself, I’ll do the job for you. And I won’t care one fucking bit.
Not at all.
Rush society.

There is this really cute chick at work, she rushes like a mofo.
I’ve never seen her do anything slow.
Sometimes she wears heels or sandals and you can tell she’s in the vicinity because her heels are clicking on the corporate tile like a machine gunner 78 rpm record.
Did I just refer to the wonder of vinyl music playback devices in the year 2010?
Bwa ha!

Sorry, young readers…see, in the old days we played vinyl albums. That’s how we listened to music. The sounds were etched in the medium, not digitally imprinted. The “records” were round and recorded at 3 popular playback speeds…33, 45 & 78 rpm.
33 and 45 were the most popular.
78 was some weird fringy thing no one had. It insinuates speed, like my fast-walking co-worker.

What was my original point?
Remember the beginning of this mess?

A lot of motherfucking shit can befall your mind in just one day

So ya see Shawn, that’s what happened.
My morning plans…spring eternal.
They happen…just not exactly when intended under the beauty of the morning sun.
One day. Without warning…

Notice I didn’t say “sorry.”

I never say sorry.
Sorry is lame.
Not many people mean it.

It’s a reflexive burp, most of the time.

Fuck you, I wanna say.

Sorry. I do it too. Sometimes I just blurt it. Sorry! You get in someone’s way, you step on their shoe, you stick your finger up their crotch…sorry!

Words are so much easier than utter and sincere apology.

I’m sorry for this post.