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I woke up before the alarm went off this morning. 

Had it been three hours before the iPhone duck started quacking, I could’ve just gone back to sleep. But no, mon ami, my eye creaked open eight full minutes before that asshat robo-duck started losing his shit like he does at 9 a.m. every day. (Shush, I work late.) 
I chose the duck sound over, say, the honking horn or the new-agey harp, because most alarms tend to infuriate. I hypothesized that a sound from nature might both wake this suckah up and briefly trick me into thinking I didn’t have to rise and shine immediately, thus staving off morning ire. 
I was wrong. Very, very wrong. So wrong, in fact, that the sounds I once associated with childhood trips to the lake with Gramma Lydia are ruined. Live, quacking ducks now make my blood boil. Sorry, Gramma. 
End Tangent. 
Eight minutes isn’t enough time to fall asleep again; it’s enough time to lay there being pissed off about that eight minutes I could’ve kept dreaming about Han Solo in tear-away pants. 
I don’t know about you, but being awake before the alarm pisses me off. Also, being woken by the alarm pisses me off. I’m not sure which one makes me more pissed off — you’d have to ask someone who was there in the morning for both scenarios and I’m pretty sure they’d get punched for asking compare/contrast questions about my mood right after I woke up…thereby rendering them unable to speak on the subject. 
This morning, I just held still. I had to pee. I had a massive headache. I was super thirsty. And any second that sonuvabitch duck alarm was gonna go off. But rage held me still. I would lay there for as long as I could, even if that meant buying a new mattress. 
And then somebody started texting me. Ting, ting! Wake up, Fritz! Let’s talk about stuff! Ting ting! Here’s a photo! Ting, ting! Did you see the photo? Ting, ting! 
Here I was thinking all week I didn’t have anything to write about and then BAM! It’s handed to me on a silver platter, eight minutes before I have to get ready for work. 
 Without further ado, I present this list: “How Not to Get Punched in the Dang Face” 
1. With a bullet: Don’t text or call me, or fondle my doorbell before 10 a.m. unless you just can’t wait to get punched. 
2. Don’t text or call me, or fondle my doorbell before noon unless you can’t wait to hand me a waffle and keys to a speedboat. 
3. Don’t ask me how my morning is going unless you want to see me get all “assault-y.” 
4. Don’t ask if “the visit with Aunt Flo” is going well. It isn’t. And she sends you a punch. 
5. Don’t open the only donut shop in town and then close said doughnut shop on Tuesdays — the only day of the week I want a doughnut. Who does that? Somebody who wants to get punched, that’s who. (I’m looking at you, Dizzy’s Donuts, you delicious, closed-on-Tuesdays bastards.) 
6. Don’t ever say “Wakee, wakee, eggs and bac-ee!” I will laugh. And then I will punch. 
Look, I’m sorry I’m such a dang crabcake in the morning. I’ll look into changing the alarm again and see if that does the trick, but honestly, I don’t think I can help it. I wasn’t born to rise and shine; I was born to rise and whine.

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