original story: Not-so-Early Morning
Author: Me!
Title: Not-so-Early Morning
I open my eyes and cringe. God damn… it’s morning. That is to say, I just woke up. It’s two in the afternoon, and it’s the second (or first? or third?) week of summer break. I sit up, slipping my bare legs from under the covers, and consider them with a critical eye. They’re sort of chubby, I think. Gross, I decide, because there’s two (or one? or three?) weeks’ hair growth on them. ’Cause, hey, my boyfriend’s out of town, back home for the summer, and I don’t get out much. Or at all. I’m the sort of gal who’s really two people inside, you know. And when the first, the weakly sociable but utterly beaten into submission person, meekly suggests, ‘Maybe we could go out today? Or like… Do something?’, the other glares, whacks the first over the head and growls, ‘Make me.’
That same domineering ‘better half’ of my brain is the one convinced that ‘morning’ is not ‘the time period between 4AM and noon’, but ‘the time period immediately after I wake up’, and that ‘breakfast’ is defined as ‘my first meal of the day’, even if it happens to take place at 6 PM, and goddamnit the dining commons should understand that and provide appropriate food! Greasy fatty sausage links twenty-four hours a day, for example. Yum.
I consider my reflection in the mirror. I could shower. Or not. After all, I did shower just two days ago when I had that dentist appointment, and, like, who’s gonna smell me besides my parents? And my hair isn’t yet a completely slimy mop. That decides it, then. I’ll wait until the next time I have to go number two. It’s convenient, you know. Your pants are already down, all you gotta do is kick them off… and your top you can take off while sitting on the pot. Efficient’s the word. I rub my face absentmindedly. Ew… oil. I wipe my hands on my shorts.
I get up, stepping gingerly around the explosion of debris that is my room. I eye the hairbrush lying limply on the floor, feeling an inexplicable rush of disdain towards it. Screw it. I’m sure the two (one? three?) weeks’ worth of knots in my hair are a lost cause by now. I didn’t even try brushing them out when I went to the dentist… Maybe I should just get a haircut.
I drift into the kitchen, finding my mom with a similar messy mop on her head. Hey, it’s Sunday. She’s allowed, right?
“Mooooom,” I whine. “You wanna cut my hair?”
She looks up from her book, cringes. “God no!” she exclaims.
Dad looks over from his flight simulator game. “I’ll do it,” he offers.
I shudder. “God no!” I exclaim.
I sink down onto an armchair, watching my cat slowly back away from me. “What, I look that bad?” I tease.
“Yes,” Mom says absently. “You really do.”
Yes, I realize. I probably do. I’m just so tired. Not for any bizarre reason! I just stayed up late, doing what all normal people do on summer break. Reading Harry Potter fanfiction, day in and day out. I almost went to bed before sunrise, but I just had to find out what happened in this one story… You see, Snape the greasy Potions professor was in love with Harry, and Dobby the furry house-elf was in love with Harry’s pants……
My cellphone rings and I take the call. “Hello?” I say wearily.
“Heeeey seeeexyyyy,” intones my boyfriend.
“Oh,” I say. “Hey.”
There is an awkward pause, during which I get the subtle feeling that something’s expected of me. Then he says, obviously trying for sexy and suave, “I thought you’d be the one calling me today, but that’s okaaaay. Weeeell? What do you have to saaay to your favorite boyfriend?”
Something clicks in my mind. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck! I grab Mom’s cellphone to see what date it is, saying nothing. Shit, it’s true! It’s his birthday. I slam my flip-phone shut, then immediately reopen it and dial his number. “Happy birthday!!” I exclaim cheerfully into the phone when he picks up. “Sorry, lover,” I say sweetly, “I think the call got lost right after I said hey, but I didn’t realize it for a while and went on congratulating you.”
I ignore Mom’s surprised look.
We chatter about meaningless things for a while, until, of course, he gets horny. Men always get horny. “Soooo,” he breathes, “what are you weeearing?”
“Um, some shorts and a top,” I mumble, hastily getting up, deciding it’s time to get out of the living room.
“Oooooo,” he drawls, “are your leggies all smoooooooothie as always?”
I gulp silently. What to do? What to do?! “Uh… yeah,” I say. “I just shaved… mmhm.” Mom snorts with laughter, confirming my suspicion that she can hear what my lover is saying, and I quickly get out of the room.
“Mmmmmmm,” he says, “and I bet your hair is all nice and flowy…. Awww I wanna hug you…”
“Yeah,” I say weakly. “Yeah… that’s nice…”
“You’re so cute, Natty,” he sighs. “Always so neat, and you always smell so nice… I think that’s why I love you.”
Title: Not-so-Early Morning
I open my eyes and cringe. God damn… it’s morning. That is to say, I just woke up. It’s two in the afternoon, and it’s the second (or first? or third?) week of summer break. I sit up, slipping my bare legs from under the covers, and consider them with a critical eye. They’re sort of chubby, I think. Gross, I decide, because there’s two (or one? or three?) weeks’ hair growth on them. ’Cause, hey, my boyfriend’s out of town, back home for the summer, and I don’t get out much. Or at all. I’m the sort of gal who’s really two people inside, you know. And when the first, the weakly sociable but utterly beaten into submission person, meekly suggests, ‘Maybe we could go out today? Or like… Do something?’, the other glares, whacks the first over the head and growls, ‘Make me.’
That same domineering ‘better half’ of my brain is the one convinced that ‘morning’ is not ‘the time period between 4AM and noon’, but ‘the time period immediately after I wake up’, and that ‘breakfast’ is defined as ‘my first meal of the day’, even if it happens to take place at 6 PM, and goddamnit the dining commons should understand that and provide appropriate food! Greasy fatty sausage links twenty-four hours a day, for example. Yum.
I consider my reflection in the mirror. I could shower. Or not. After all, I did shower just two days ago when I had that dentist appointment, and, like, who’s gonna smell me besides my parents? And my hair isn’t yet a completely slimy mop. That decides it, then. I’ll wait until the next time I have to go number two. It’s convenient, you know. Your pants are already down, all you gotta do is kick them off… and your top you can take off while sitting on the pot. Efficient’s the word. I rub my face absentmindedly. Ew… oil. I wipe my hands on my shorts.
I get up, stepping gingerly around the explosion of debris that is my room. I eye the hairbrush lying limply on the floor, feeling an inexplicable rush of disdain towards it. Screw it. I’m sure the two (one? three?) weeks’ worth of knots in my hair are a lost cause by now. I didn’t even try brushing them out when I went to the dentist… Maybe I should just get a haircut.
I drift into the kitchen, finding my mom with a similar messy mop on her head. Hey, it’s Sunday. She’s allowed, right?
“Mooooom,” I whine. “You wanna cut my hair?”
She looks up from her book, cringes. “God no!” she exclaims.
Dad looks over from his flight simulator game. “I’ll do it,” he offers.
I shudder. “God no!” I exclaim.
I sink down onto an armchair, watching my cat slowly back away from me. “What, I look that bad?” I tease.
“Yes,” Mom says absently. “You really do.”
Yes, I realize. I probably do. I’m just so tired. Not for any bizarre reason! I just stayed up late, doing what all normal people do on summer break. Reading Harry Potter fanfiction, day in and day out. I almost went to bed before sunrise, but I just had to find out what happened in this one story… You see, Snape the greasy Potions professor was in love with Harry, and Dobby the furry house-elf was in love with Harry’s pants……
My cellphone rings and I take the call. “Hello?” I say wearily.
“Heeeey seeeexyyyy,” intones my boyfriend.
“Oh,” I say. “Hey.”
There is an awkward pause, during which I get the subtle feeling that something’s expected of me. Then he says, obviously trying for sexy and suave, “I thought you’d be the one calling me today, but that’s okaaaay. Weeeell? What do you have to saaay to your favorite boyfriend?”
Something clicks in my mind. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck! I grab Mom’s cellphone to see what date it is, saying nothing. Shit, it’s true! It’s his birthday. I slam my flip-phone shut, then immediately reopen it and dial his number. “Happy birthday!!” I exclaim cheerfully into the phone when he picks up. “Sorry, lover,” I say sweetly, “I think the call got lost right after I said hey, but I didn’t realize it for a while and went on congratulating you.”
I ignore Mom’s surprised look.
We chatter about meaningless things for a while, until, of course, he gets horny. Men always get horny. “Soooo,” he breathes, “what are you weeearing?”
“Um, some shorts and a top,” I mumble, hastily getting up, deciding it’s time to get out of the living room.
“Oooooo,” he drawls, “are your leggies all smoooooooothie as always?”
I gulp silently. What to do? What to do?! “Uh… yeah,” I say. “I just shaved… mmhm.” Mom snorts with laughter, confirming my suspicion that she can hear what my lover is saying, and I quickly get out of the room.
“Mmmmmmm,” he says, “and I bet your hair is all nice and flowy…. Awww I wanna hug you…”
“Yeah,” I say weakly. “Yeah… that’s nice…”
“You’re so cute, Natty,” he sighs. “Always so neat, and you always smell so nice… I think that’s why I love you.”