My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard… Ugh. And they’re like, “It’s better than yours…” Must… find…I could teach you, but I’d have to… snooze button. Clearly, setting my alarm clock to the radio was a mistake. In all fairness, though, this has to be at least ten times better than the techno I’m going to have to listen to in half an hour. Fucking Ted and his techno. He got upset yesterday because some “artist” had decided to put words to the music. As if the words were ruining the music, if you can even call that music.
God it’s dark. The first time I work up this early, I remember thinking how much easier it was to open my eyes, because, hell, you don’t have to adjust to the light when the sun hasn’t come up yet. Talk about a bright side… or whatever. Despite the overwhelming joy I feel at not having to strain my eyes, there seems to be a certain nauseous feeling that has escaped my stomach and is currently circulating in my arms and legs. I stumble out of bed. Three bruises and a head bump later I’m in my car, on my way to work.
Four years ago I would’ve laughed at someone like me—a thirty-six year old working some pansy-ass job at a coffee-house, complaining about the early hours and how much cream cheese I have to make. But I needed a change. Not quite the change that my friend had made in college—the high school valedictorian dropping out of UCLA to join the circus. But I needed out. Working fifteen years as a California Highway Patrol Officer, and eventually as a member of the Anti-Narcotics squadron, left me desiring a better patron-client relationship. It didn’t take long for me to realize that people don’t enjoy small talk when they’re being handed a $377 fine for speeding. And you sure as hell can guess how a meth dealer responds to a question about changes in the weather when at that exact moment the sky is crashing down on a business he worked ten years to build.