A great morning.

I awoke from my three-hour pause in consciousness the way I usually do. Abruptly. A flock of poorly synthesized birds screech a song from the small clock on my improvised nightstand - a steel cabinet, capable of withstanding a canon blast, which I use to store my medicine and cleaning supplies. The birds push my body to move, growing louder until they reach a point where the noise is no longer discernable as "chirping," but as an onslaught of high-frequency, vessel-bursting clatter that easily tears through the dorm walls.

Countless innocents are depending on me for a pleasant morning. I cannot fail them.

I silence the birds with one swift strike. It is well-practiced and precise. I've trained for years.

But then the low hits me. The downside jump-starting your day with adrenaline is that it quickly fades once the threat's been neutralized. The room is quiet again and I'm still in bed. My body is heavy. My eyes won't synch with my brain. I have to pee.

Now, that last one may seem like a good reason to get up, but somehow I manage to reset the alarm. I don't remember if I sleep or not. I probably just go limp and don't move for a while. I'm conscious, but inert.

I blink and the ungrateful avian bastards, revived through my infinite mercy, recommence their assault. Perhaps they proclaim their joy of living, or perhaps they sing my praises. I strike them down. The wound is non-fatal . . . striking the wrong pressure point maims their vocals, which persist in a cold "ehhhhhhhhhhhh!" It's hard to listen to. I finish it quickly.

Next is a quick shower; it gets the blood flowing and cleans out my eyes. I dress and brush and look in the mirror - there's no time to shave. There is work to be done. There is work to be done and there is little time.

And I'm hungry.

There is work to be done and I'm hungry.

Hungry people cannot get work done.

Shoes and a jacket. Sunglasses. Fuck, it's bright. I walk with a skip because it's early, and I can probably make breakfast. Man, those eggs are gonna be good. I mean, the eggs are terrible, but they'll be good because they're breakfast. And breakfast is a change.

I get to the caffeteria and swipe my card.

"It's continental, you know."

"Huh?"

"Breakfast is over and lunch hasn't started yet. There's no food."

". . . "

I go in and find that breakfast is still out. It's just picked-apart and getting cold. I grab a bunch of runny eggs with cheese, then some diced potatoes and a bagel with cream cheese. Once I have a table, I get a glass of orange juice and three cups of coffee. It's all fuel for writing. Except the potatoes. They're too hard and gross to eat.

Caffeteria eggs and caffeteria coffee are known to induce what can best be described as "rectal prolapse." I feel the sudden urge to clear out, and leave. On my way back, I meet a squirrel. He sits on the wall next to me, eating a nut. He doesn't run from me, so I start a conversation.

"Sup, squirrel?"

"Just chillin' out. Eatin' a nut."

"That's cool."

"Yeah."

"Well, see ya."

"Later."

And I keep walking. Do I have a cookie? I think I have a cookie. I eat it while I walk past the fitness center. The joggers are jogging in the window. Mmm, cookie.

The sun's warm and I stop walking. I smile. I'm alive and it's feeling pretty good. The paper's due in eight hours, and I didn't get much done last night. I've gotta get to work.

I've got a lot of work to do. No time left. The next eight hours will be grueling, and all because I couldn't make myself work three days ago. I barely worked last night.

And now? I laugh. I'm going to pump out a paper I care nothing about because it's what I do. I have one thing to do and no choice but to do it. There is only the paper. My life is forfeit.

And I laugh. It's a good cookie. The sun feels nice. My body doesn't want to stand, and I'm worn out from a sleepless week. A week of all-nighters in which nothing was accomplished. A weak of false effort.

And I laugh. Because fuck, I've been bored.