Let this be clear: I am not a morning person. If you’re looking for a buddy to go jogging with at six in the morning before work, I’m not your man. If you want to go to the local deli at 7:00 a.m. for breakfast, you can go alone and tell me about your awesome bagel and a shmear sometime later in the afternoon. The only morning “roll” I am really up for is sex and even that requires that I don’t have to travel more than about six to nine inches depending on whether I am filling out an NSA form or writing a Penthouse forum letter.
As a not-so-young unemployed actor, my father used to drive me at some scary early hour to the station to take a train in to the city to live the glamorous life of running from one audition to the next. I would sign-up for one audition, then traverse the city to the next audition to sign-up for a second, then back to the first to wait around most of the day, sing 16 bars of my music or say a line or two and be told, “Thank you,” so that I could run at a mild sprint to the next audition, or two or three, in order to continue this glamorous lifestyle. I am no Freudian but perhaps this is why today I am such a bitter asshole.
My Dad was a sweet man, and by this I don’t just mean the semen he used to make me swallow as part of his routine sexual abuse. Worse than the mandatory fellatio was his severe loquaciousness on the drive to the train station. I finally said to him, “Dad, it seems like you need a morning friend–and I’m not that friend.”
So why I am like a cosmic joke variation of the Army commercial:
“WE DO MORE BEFORE 9 A.M. THAN MOST DO ALL DAY”
I have no idea. I believe God has assigned me as his personal kicking dog; apparently abusing Job wasn’t enough for this bully.
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