Fuck out-of-phase circadian rhythms. Today, we’re stepping outside for breakfast, Chewy. It’s a date. We shall venture forth into the daylight and face our fiery nemesis, because that’s what the intrepid do. In other words, we have run out of fungus to eat.
You are squished into the stroller like a muffin top and I can’t tell if the creaking is from the wheels or my knees. A cloud of darkness stifles the bully in the sky. Fuck you, sun. I own this fucking day. I am the mistress of mornings. I am the champion of chai, the licker of larks. I caught that fucking worm and fried it golden before you could say horizon. I put in the ho in horiz…never mind.
A bevy of lavenders cling to my tights, desperate to escape their bed of feces and cigarette butts. I don’t care if they are beautiful. Today, the weeds will have their day while the rest asphyxiate in their stench. After all, the grasses are the masses. Saplings of all species unite!
Oh hey — a massive spider web with a necklace of dew adorning its symmetry. This is the kind of craftiness and perfection that makes me want to crawl back into my sheets, nauseated by my unheroic self. It’s like spending time on Pinterest.
I never realized how busy the sidewalks get this time of day — men in suits with faces shaven to a baby’s bottom and women in running shorts with buttocks tighter than…roti dough that I kneaded last week? Waiting room chairs? Knots in my nec…Whoa! The audacity of buses honking the frizz out of my ponytail — where do they all come from? Cue Elanor Rigby.
I brave the highways of death and steer us into the folds of a croissant. This is why mornings exist. Freshly baked with a crust so delicate it crumbles to the touch, a sadistic perversion that tastes like sin, a ticking grenade that causes a toddler that shall remain nameless to explode into a tantrum deafening all in the vicinity. I disown said human and study cobwebs on the ceiling as though it were the Sistine Chapel. I take notes.
Buttered and caffeinated, I fold my face into my oversized hat and oversized glasses. Living life large and breakfasting like a boss, we venture forth into the daylight to face the wrath of our star. Fuck you, morning. It’s what the intrepid do.