All in time for dinner -- the stress adds up
Meet Johnny:
His typical day starts off with a short, but consistent buzzing. Is it the alarm clock? No. It's the sound of his trusty cell phone. Incoming text messages enter the morning with a buzz and chime that seem almost welcoming.
Rolling over and throwing his arm out, he stretches for the sound; and picks it up almost with repetitious memory.
"Good Morning, honey." the text message reads, as he slowly peaks the first views of the day from his eyes.
"Ahh, Christina -- my trusty partner in crime," he begins to explain to himself. "This is the girl I've fought for ever since that one faithful morn--"
"MOM!!! I TOLD YOU TO WAKE ME UP!!!"
"NO!! YOU WAKE YOURSELF UP, YOU'RE ALMOST AN ADULT!!!"
"I HATE YOU!!! WHY CAN'T YOU EVER COOPERATE?!"
The sounds begin to drown out in normalcy.
If my life was a sitcom, a movie, a television documentary, this is when the director would play the intro music. Getting up in the morning isn't necessarily the hardest thing to accomplish, but it seems so much more simplistic the night before when I make those plans. You see, I have a mind problem. It may be psychosomatic, but -- I really do struggle with retaining memories. Unless the memory is monumental, I can't seem to hold onto anything. I make so many plans the night before, in which if they were carried out -- I may actually get somewhere with my life.
But then the morning rolls around. And when I roll out of bed, it seems like a literal new day, with a new life, and a new girl by my side (via cell phone). Everything's fresh, but at the same time, everything is the same; So bland, and without color. An ideal life ... but only for the idiot savant.
As my day begins, I choose to consciously reinvent my 'todo' list, if you will call it that.
Wash clothes.
Take shower.
Work math.
Teach children.
Sleep.
A simple day, as they come every so often. I begin to approach the maternal figure:
"Hey, do you know where my basket is to separate clothes?"
"Just make piles on the floor and walk it down," she replies.
"She never answers my questions," I think to myself, but at this point -- it's not worth bickering about. I make my piles: jeans, dark colored shirts, light colored shirts, underwear, socks. As soon as I get down there though, the room stenches of death. It appears as though the water has stunk up the house downstairs, again.
You see -- my family really takes recycling to heart. That dirty laundry water pipe was torn out of the wall and it now redirects to a bucket, which is used to feed plants. Those poor plants. I pray their God gives them much mercy for the hardships they endure on our behalf. That is surely something to groan about.
I enter the laundry room, after creating my piles -- and there my mother is. She kicks me out, stating that I am wasteful for washing so much laundry and that a little stink isn't worthy of washing. She then proceeds to blab about the use of common sense, a concept of which I do not believe exists, and how I have none of it -- therefore making me inferior to society and humankind.
In logical effort, I suggest to remove the dirty water, which is smelling up the downstairs, and she agrees -- with one difference. She kicks me out and desires no help, what-so-ever, thus removing all legitimacy and logic from whatever it is she's wanting me to learn.
Typically, I've grown to be patient in such situations, but I am in a hurry -- particularly because I want to shower, and I'm absolutely out of decent clothes to wear. This poses a huge irritating problem. Four hours later, perhaps a resolution will be made.
Scenes like this cause my stress levels to rise, it gives me reason to believe that marriage is a viable solution to this problem; So I can wash my own clothes.
Good or Whack?
