Dear 6 a.m.
I have written many letters to your slutty younger sister 6:30 a.m. about how much I detest her. I didn’t think it was possible, but I think I like you even less. For as long as I can remember (which is probably like three or four days) you have been messing with my internal clock telling it that 6 a.m. is a jim-dandy fine time to get up in the morning. And really, 6 a.m., I probably wouldn’t mind so much if my clock was all, “Hey 11 p.m., let’s you and I get some shut eye.”
But the clock is not a fan of 11 p.m. The clock is more a fan of 11:30ish, 12ish with a good chunk of time spent reading before the eyes droop closed.
So what the fuck 6 a.m.?
You know, there’s nothing that great about you. It’s early. The internet is boring. TV is awful ( I saw the “Saved By the Bell” today where Violet Biggerstaff was supposed to save the day and win the big glee club conference that would send the Bayside crew to Hawaii), and I’m not a morning reader. My brain doesn’t function enough at your ungodly hour in the morning to retain anything. So mostly I sit around in a half-brained fog waiting for the coffee to kick in.
You know what 6 a.m., even my favorite cooing neighbor’s-tree-dwelling mourning dove isn’t awake at that time.
So really, I beg of you, knock it off. I love 7:30 a.m. He’s the only time for me, a perfectly logical, reasonable, and wonderful time to get up and embrace the day.
I thank you in advance for your attention to this matter.
Sleepless in Shakopee