The camera whipped around to face me as a caffeine-kicked broken alarm clock wailed its adrenaline, full-effect. A deluge of sunlight threatened to blindly eradicate any and all remnants of light-headed sleep.
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Forced to give up dreams and tranquility, I fell out of bed, to the floor, heaped into the ungracious pile of a shivering, poor pauper. The cold-blooded steel belt buckle that had anarchisticly positioned itself to break the first footfall didn't seem to be a friend of mine. One has few friends upon first waking. My feet shuffled, depressed and unwilling, on a course that needed no willed dictation.
Cold pellets of shower-water slammed into my forehead, giving way seconds later to the steamed perspiration of fantastically scalding water. I breathed in the slow smell of herbal essences, but soon it became superheated steam piped directly at my dripping nostrils. At that temperature, the essences' are reputed to chemically meld with H2O to become something distinctly, obviously not herbal - shampoo euphoria. That’s what the commercials say, at least. I haven't yet achieved such enlightenment. Have you?
The foot previously mangled by the steel belt tentatively questioned the surface of a thick-pile rug outside the shower, one still slightly moist from the day before. [If a single bath-mat is left to hang, on a tree, in the desert, will it ever dry? I think not; the mitobacteria that live within each rug pile have probably invented an advanced civilization, a civilization of cell phones / hydroelectric green-party power / hi-fi-wi-fi 802.11b and chex-mix that's non-fattening. It must be damn easy for those bastards to keep their environment at a perpetual, comfortable 92.6% humidity.]
A second foot dragged itself, and several million bubbling herbal remnants, from the pool of slow-to-drain water that the tub was reluctant to let drain. Perhaps the tub is controlled by the same mitobacterial populations as control the mat.
The feet shuffled about a bit, did a dance of their own, and ended up letting the knees above them bump into over-rated hardwood cabinet doors, doors that would have been much more beautiful had the remained part of a tree, a tree with roots, and capillaries, and living cells, resting in the warm breeze of California or Oregon or something.
Shaving cream slopped to the tile near the feet, though neither foot was intent on complaining at this point. It wasn't in their place to complain, and they had bigger problems, for they were still covered in the essence herbal chemicals. Elsewhere, a dull razor indignantly sliced traces of unwanted beard from skin that tried, unsuccessfully though without fail, to grow such beard anew each and ever day. Herbal-essence'd steam water begged and taunted to be wiped from the mirror every few seconds, and the towel that had been tasked with the job obligingly allowed small, bubbled rivulets to remain after each pass. It must be a conspiracy.
The foot got bored of their current plight, and, again without human command, trailed off for some random point a room away. The body above obligingly followed, for it was cold, still a bit wet, and really just wanted to be back sleeping, anyways. No such luck though, it was time for it to garb itself in cheaply-made expensive clothing sewn by Indonesians on North Koreans or wherever and whoever else it is that expensive clothing makers rip off to earn their profit.
That hardly mattered, though, for the feet had one final task before they’d be allowed the short rest that should be allowed to feet, on a daily basis: the coffee shop. Soon, a camera would whip around to face forward, a caffeine-kicked kid behind with back-broken adrenaline rush long forgotten, to enter back into the world of the working, miserable feet that wish they were all sleeping.
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