So this bizarre thing seems to have happened to me.
For no particular reason -- and I mean
NO reason -- I've started waking up without the aid of an alarm clock at precisely 6:00 AM. Every day. Even weekends.
Now, as anybody who's ever lived with me can attest ... parents, siblings, pets, college roommates, grad school roommates, post-grad school roommates, The Missus ... this is HIGHLY unnatural behavior for me.
Waking up too early is just not a problem I've ever had.
I'm nocturnal. A late sleeper. A night person. A bat. A night owl. A complete and total slugabed.
(Yes, that totally is SO a real word. No, I didn't make it up! Shut up! No, YOU shut up! Yeah-huh! Is so!)In fact, the caffeine blast generally necessary to propel me first into a vertical position, and then to send me shambling forward through a typical work day ... well, it's roughly the equivalent of what a few kegs of black powder and some Mythbusters might generate.
"But Mooooom! My ass IS out of bed!"
So it's something of an understatement when I say that not once in my four decades of life have I ever been a morning person.
Until about a month ago.
It's like a switch was flipped.
The weird part is, I have changed absolutely nothing about my routine. No changes in exercise, diet, caffeine intake ... nada.
My body, it seems, has engineered a bloodless coup d'etat and has seized control from my brain. I have been in charge, it seems, for quite long enough. I can no longer be trusted to operate myself.
So there's a new sheriff in town and now it's lights out at 11.
Gone is the 3 AM channel surfing. Gone is Twittering till dawn. Even if I
want to stay awake, it's just not possible. It's like C-3PO when he gets switched off. I'm OUT. Down. Gone. One minute I'm there, the next I'm not. (Amusingly, I'm told this often happens mid-sentence.)
So what's the deal? Why the hell is this happening?
The way I see it, I figure there are three options:
1) It's just
possible, I suppose, that this
might potentially perhaps just be a sign that I'm getting ... you know ......
old.
"Grrrr ... Letters to the Editor, prostate glands and opinions about new music!"
Or ... and I personally believe this is the
FAR more likely scenario ...
2) Maybe, just maybe ... I shouldn't have poked that thing I found next to the bed with that stick.
"Maybe it's filled with candy! Wait ... OH, GOD! That's not candy! That's not candy at all!"
3) Of course, it would be irresponsible of me to rule out the
possibility -- remote as it may be -- that I'm actually an avatar being driven around by a wheelchair-bound space marine.
One must cover one's bases, after all.
"Wait. So last time I got to operate a bad-ass, ten-foot, blue, monkey-cat-alien on a mind-blowingly fantastical jungle planet ... and now I'm driving around in a little fat guy in Jersey? You suck, James Cameron. Hard."
Oh, well.
(sigh)See you in the morning, I guess.
Till next we---
(snore) ...
Oh.
(Okay, if you're really anything like me, you waddle up to their door almost daily to cram your slavering maw full of grease and sugar-soaked awesomeness. So, for your sake and the sake of the children, let's hope you're nothing at all like me.)
What's his deal? Seems a little edgy, right? A little too intense?
Thaaaat's better.
I find it curious for two reasons. Both of which have to do with the graphic down there in the corner.
Well, a duckling would know best, I suppose. They are experts, after all.
"You're going to put me where? But that's not even a place cookies should go!! PLEASE DON'T!! OH GOD! PLEEE--"
The blatant flouting of child labor laws?
Or the complete and utter lack of hygienic food-handling regulations!
Well ...
It's ... um ... yeeeeeah ...
Oh hey! Good news!
OH DEAR SWEET BUTTERY FUCK!!
Is it apathy? A lack of compassion? A psychological inability to empathize with another?
(Little known fact: This was actually the original inspiration for the film Footloose. True story.)
"OH NO! NOT MY EXTREMITIES! I LOVED HAVING THOSE!"
On the other hand, perhaps this particular warning is more properly targeted at Brooklyn-based Hipster Stick Figures who have developed the annoying affectation of carrying Victorian walking sticks. Hmm. You know what? I like this answer better.
Just so you know.
(sigh)
But take one goddamn step outside that area -- into The Forbidden Zone? Well, then you're on your own, motherfucker.
Naturally, I'm also looking forward to his imported Italian knees. 
Come ON, man! Have the decency to do your giggling behind my back!
Are they for cleaning the house? Doing the dishes? Washing the car?
... you know ... 
*If used properly, may actually cause mess.
