I HAVE to get up.
It's been a little longer than a couple minutes after snoozing the alarm. I know it's been longer than five minutes. Why has my alarm not gone off again?
"Don't turn over and look at the alarm clock—you're comfortable," I thought.
And I was. The kind of comfortable that only happens right after you were supposed to be uncomfortable, like being wrapped in a blanket burrito knowing the world is already spinning and you're still pretending time paused just for you.
But time didn't. It never does.
I could feel the guilt of the ticking clock without even seeing it. Somewhere in the distance, my phone was glowing, mocking me. That smug rectangle had one job: to wake me up. But it failed, again. Or maybe I failed first, by trusting that one snooze would actually mean one snooze.
I cracked one eye open. The light from the window had that too-late brightness. Not early morning soft, but the "you should already be dressed and out the door" kind of bright.
I sighed and finally turned over.
7:48 a.m.
Perfect. Eight minutes until "technically late" and twelve until "noticeably late." My specialty.
My brain immediately started its usual morning argument.
'You can skip breakfast.
You can shower in five minutes if you really try.
You don't actually need coffee.. just imagine coffee.'
But every idea required movement, and movement meant abandoning the blanket burrito. I stared at the ceiling and wondered why mornings always felt like negotiations with a terrorist, except I was both the negotiator and the terrorist.
Finally, with the dramatic sigh of someone facing genuine hardship, I sat up. The alarm, of course, chose that exact moment to go off again. Loud. Cheerful. Too late to be helpful.
"Thanks," I muttered at it, like it could hear me.
There it was, the first annoyance of the day. And, like clockwork, I knew it wouldn't be the last.
I swung my legs out of bed and immediately stepped on something sharp and suspiciously Lego-shaped. I don't even own Legos. That's when I remembered: the universe never misses a chance to add insult to injury.
The floor was cold. The kind of cold that makes you question all your life choices. Why didn't I just move somewhere warm? Why did I think hard floors were a "mature" decision? My toes screamed in protest as I shuffled to the bathroom like a sleep-deprived zombie who'd lost the will to be intimidating.
I flipped on the light.
Instant regret.
There's something about bathroom lighting that feels like a personal attack—like it's less "illumination" and more "let's highlight everything you hate about your face before coffee."
There I was: hair doing interpretive dance, pillow crease on my cheek like a tattoo, and that half-aware stare of a person trying to remember how mornings work.
Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Simple tasks—yet somehow monumental. As I brushed, I glanced at my reflection and muttered, "We've got to stop meeting like this."
Halfway through brushing, my phone chimed. A text from my boss:
"Morning! Reminder about the 8:30 meeting. Hope you're ready."
I wasn't.
I spat, rinsed, and started the mental math again. Eight minutes to get dressed, three to find keys, four to regret everything. That left… negative time for breakfast.
I threw on whatever clothes seemed least wrinkled, which was really just a contest between "moderately creased" and "looks like it survived a small explosion."
Then came the socks. Why is it that no two socks in history have ever stayed together? I swear they sneak off during the night for secret sock parties. I found one blue, one gray, and made peace with it.
By the time I was halfway out the door, I realized I'd forgotten my phone charger. I went back. Then my wallet. Back again. Then, finally, the coffee I swore I didn't need. I took a sip—burned my tongue immediately—and somehow still felt proud of myself for trying.
The outside world greeted me with the usual chaos: a car alarm in the distance, a neighbor's dog announcing its dissatisfaction with existence, and the faint smell of someone else's breakfast reminding me of my own starvation.
I climbed into my car, turned the key, and the engine sputtered before catching—like even it wasn't sure it wanted to participate in today.
Traffic, of course, was biblical. A slow-moving river of regret and exhaust.
I sat there, staring at the endless line of brake lights, and thought, This is it. This is adulthood. Endless alarms, endless rushing, and the faint, constant feeling that you're five minutes behind on everything.
As the car inched forward, I laughed quietly to myself. Not because anything was funny—but because sometimes, if you don't laugh, you'll just start yelling at inanimate objects again.
And somewhere between one red light and the next, I made a silent promise:
Tomorrow, I'll wake up earlier.
I didn't believe it for a second.