[Chapter 2] Wakeup.

Father Time is a precarious entity. He possesses an innate penchant to surrender no regard for his constituents who live and die by his every passing breath. With the clout to speed up or slow down each moment of our lives, his sense of humor is truly satiric.

.:.

I awoke to the familiar and yet astonishingly brash sound of my half beaten in alarm clock resonating throughout the small space that I pay to call my bedroom.

I could tell by the warmth at the foot of my bed that the time was well past noon, as the sun had already begun to shine in through my westward facing window.

As I attempted to open my eyes, which were currently glued shut by way of my contacts, the events of the preceding night slowly began to reconvene in my mind as if by the onset of a slow creeping fog. Fortunately, the consequences of my actions left me with a migraine fit for that of the noble class, forcing me to dwell with the lesser of the two evils. I’d be a happy bearer to physical pain over psychological turmoil any day.

While the machine at which we prompt to do our bidding each morning oscillated each high-pitched screech with a sense of pride as if it were a child at his first kindergarten Christmas pageant, each permeating tone made my head feel as if screws were being tightened down upon it by some cruel form of medieval torture device.

As I stumbled out of bed to silence the intrepid alarm, my Blackberry (which was currently perched inconveniently upon the nightstand opposite my bed) decided to join in on the unsolicited fun, alerting me of an inbound text message.

After maneuvering acrobatically around the disarray of shit littering the floor on which I attempt to make a living, I was finally able to silence each of the devices that claim to make my life easier.

Sinking back into my desk chair, as the echoing tone in my eardrums faded to silence, I warily engaged my mobile phone only hoping to find that my apparently now full inbox would not contain any urgent messages requiring me to make my already half-wasted day a productive one.

“New message from: Twitter
@facemakerkaj: Overheard: I'll pray for you. Person 2: please don’t. God hates me and it will only further complicate it.”

“Where the hell does my roommate find these people?” I muttered to myself.

“New message from: Twitter
@ijustine: My flesh is burning off my body right now it's so hot out.”

“That’s actually, really hot; in a weird, sadistic type of way.”

“New message from: Sarah F
heyy, what ru doin tonite? we’re havin some people over for a halloween party.. you should come ;-)”

“And that, my friends, will make for a very interesting night.”

You see, Sarah is the type of girl who tends to have a limited base of reasoning for contacting me. While her stated intentions may appear to be rather insipid, most of the time they are ambiguous as well.

Sarah, being an ex-flame who is yet to be fully extinguished, the history between the two of us could honestly be summed up, written on a flashcard, and then proceed to be tossed in the trash.

Let me contemplate how to put this, bluntly.

We met.
We fucked.
I met another girl.
She cried.
We made up.
We dated.
She left me for her ex.
I cried.
We wiped the slate clean, and we agreed to disagree.

If only it were half as entertaining as I tend to make it sound.

It’s become a vicious loop that swings full-circle year after year. At times, I feel as if I’ve been sucked into some C-list teen drama on the CW with nothing short of self-indulgent high school characters played by 22 and 23 old actors.

There are times when Sarah will begin a conversation with a simple ‘hi’, and by the end of that same conversation I will find myself driving asininely to the liquor store to buy her and her underage counterparts a bottle of Bicardi Razz.

It’s that same rather annoying self-will leading me to believe that if by doing any favors for a seductress, such as herself, that the likelihood of sexual compensation will increase exponentially. Unfortunately, the truth of the matter is that 0 raised to any power remains aught, and regardless of my non-existent batting average in such situations I’m continuously swayed by my most primeval of instincts.

Yet, for some incomprehensible reason, again will I try. My persistence may be admirable to some, yet to others a sense of impetuousness reigns forth; and as my world begins to spin wildly out of control, I react the only way I know how.

“Compose SMS Text: Sarah F
Hey. I’ll see you tonight.”

I’ll be the one dressed as the dog, my tail concealed between my legs.

“I need help.”

---
Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith