The glorious sound of “Old Car Horn” reverberates through my bedroom. My contacts are dry as the fan whirling above my head — there it is, the first thought I have every morning.
I have to get up.
Literally. I’ve been doing this thing where I leave my alarm across the room. I rip the covers off, unsure if this technique is really effective.
The room is cold and bare.
I can feel it as I stare into the carpet beneath my feet. There’s no sunlight today; there hasn’t been for a while. “Old Car Horn” continues to test my sanity, so I jump up and bash snooze with my fist, shattering the phone entirely. Reluctantly, I fall back into my mattress, which lays lower than I want it to. I will do this all over again in exactly 9 minutes.
Still tired, I stand up and opt in for another 9 minutes.
I stand up (still tired) and repeat this process for 3 more sets of 9 minutes.
I finally decide to just bring my phone back to bed with me and hold my finger on snooze as I sleep.
It’s Saturday, I don’t even have to get up.
I spend the next hour and a half toiling over the torrential downpour which does, in fact, impact my day. I try to ignore the chaos unfolding outside my door, which reminds me of the world’s malevolence. I cringe as the wind creaks through the walls. I swear I hear birds crooning sad songs. I definitely hear emergency sirens and crackheads yelping as they meander up and down the streets — an innocuous lullaby, as I drift beneath the sheets.
I finally get up. It’s still there.
I weigh my body first thing after I pee.
Immediately after, I attempt to curate my apartment with whatever lighting I can find. These days, I rely on this ritual. I try to not confront my day this way, but I look at my phone as I make instant coffee and a lame bowl of dinosaur oatmeal. This is actually a bright spot for me and my day; coffee seemingly cleanses my soul.
My usual mid-morning routine of thrusting paperback books as hard as I can against the dry wall feels extra half decent today.
I move around the house.
I make a lot of noise.
I leave for the gym.
As I open myself up to the now partly cloudy sky, I hear a regular car horn. Not an old one. It’s funny how the car horn is the most direct tool ever created. Just a really loud, obnoxious noise to get your attention. We seem to have adopted this pretty well in America.
I forget my hat, so I retrace my steps back inside. I grab it from my room and close the bedroom door behind me — there’s an echo. It’s here.