Morning

A rare shot of my left hand.

A rare shot of my hand. I bet this was taken in the morning.

When I was younger I had a supervisor who was fairly cool. I thought I remembered him pretty well but I just tried to recall things about him and came up with a pitiful total of three factoids.

  1. His first and last name.
  2. He was a heavy smoker, drank craploads of coffee, and was a close-talker. M-O-O-N. That spells “bad breath,” laws, yes! I imagine it was what the world of the DOOM video game smelled like. That breath would stop a Mack truck. But that’s another story.
  3. He would never say, “Good morning.”

I’m a little sad that’s all I can remember about him. He was a pretty good guy. But, to this day, to honor him, I never say “Good morning,” either.

If you’re around when I stroll into work, a few things are certain. Well, perhaps “stroll” is too strong of a word. It’s more like Dead Man Walking. It goes without saying that the last hour of my life has not been pleasant, unless one enjoys running around like a chicken with its head cut off. I’m also running a few minutes late, I’m likely hella pissed from bullshit that happened to me on the three-mile commute, I just realized I forgot my lunch at home, and there may be a little foam and spittle.

I may even be clutching my chest and veering to the left.

It is, I think, decidedly the wrong moment to turn to me and cheerfully say, “Good morning!”

good-morning

Clicky for video goodness.

I like mornings, at least at first. I usually wake up early without the benefit of an alarm clock. I realize I’m awake and as soon as there’s enough realization, I roll out, hop up and I’m just about ready to take on the day. Unlike some people I don’t require 12 snoozes to get my motor runnin’.

A typical morning is when I get my computer time in. I hang in the office with my cats, surfin’ blogs, trying to come up with something pithy for my daily Facebook, and I have the time crunch of my daily blog deadline. Morning is when it all happens.

It’s also when the universe screws with the space-time continuum to mess with my head. It’s morning and I’m in my cocoon and I’m happy as a clam. So the universe reaches out and adjusts the dial until it’s pointing at “Chicken on a Hot Plate.”

POOF! Yikes, were did the time go? I’m late for work and my blog post isn’t even done yet. In the time it takes to blink an eye 45 minutes have gone by.

Then I drag my tail into the office, so sad and pathetic, people fling their “good mornings!” at me, and the universe twists that dial hard back the other way to the “Mundane Monday Molasses” setting. For me, every day spent at work is a Monday. Does the time pass slowly? You tell me. I work for several months, then dare to look up at the clock. Three minutes have elapsed. Nooooooooooooooooooooo!

To honor my old boss I have carried on the “Morning” tradition. It takes thought. It takes planning. It takes effort.

I’m convinced my co-workers say “morning” when they see me for the sole purpose of pissing me off. They know it bothers me, therefore they do it anyway. Take that, motherfucker, and welcome to work. Have a nice day now, ya hear?

I take a few moments to gather myself, usually a few seconds past the point of things becoming painfully awkward. That’s too much silence. Is he going to ignore me? What the hell! Then, with a voice that’s a special blend of Eyesore from the Hundred Canker Wood and Elmer Fudd, I slowly belch, “Morning.” My goal is for it to sound like gravel on a cheese grater.

And, this is critical, I never include the word “good.”

Crew: What never?
Me: No never!
Crew: What never?
Me: I said fucking never. Now you better drop it.
Crew (in unison): And fucking never use word “good!” Now give three cheers and one cheer more! For the sad pathetic worker whore!

That omission of the word “good” is my subtle and subversive act of resistance. That’s me raising my clenched fist and shaking it back at the universe and shouting, “I am here! I’m a person and my name is Anakin! I exist! I take up physical space! I am real! And I will not say this morning is good! You can’t make me! Hit me with your best shot!”

Besides, it’s too much dame work to say morning to everyone. “Checklist: New Day. Item 1. Say good morning to everyone the first time you meet them on this new day.” What am I supposed to do? Carry around a good morning abacus to keep mental inventory of who has received the required greeting so far and who has not? Fuck all that. Too much damn work. That’s just exhausting.

Effective immediately, I will greet all of you a single time for all eternity. So you’ve got that going for you.

Morning!

Note: This post includes a rare 22-letter word. See if you can find it.

10 responses

  1. That first photo just made me go: fuck yeah! Did you take it yourself?

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    1. LOL! Awesome! And, I do have the heart to tell you, I lied when I said that was my hand. My fingernail polish is not that shade of red! 🙂

      The image was a fortuitous find for the phrase “good morning sucks” so I had to include it in this post! 🙂

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      1. Well, that it’s not really your hand goes without saying…BUT that doesn’t mean that there isn’t a polished hand for you to abuse…peruse? You know what I mean. Great polish, though.

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    2. That photo is pretty much Tom’s view of life in general. And he really does hate Valentine’s day too. It’s an all around win-win shot that is soooo Mr. Abyss. I must admit, it did crack me up.

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  2. All I read here (cause I’ve heard it all before) was blah blah blah blah blah, “Unlike some people I don’t require 12 snoozes to get my motor runnin’” blah blah….wait, WTF! Was that a crack at ME?

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    1. For Valentine’s Day I have written you a love song, my love. “Eighteen Snoozes and a Dozen Roses.”

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  3. Who does your nails?
    “I may even be clutching my chest and veering to the left.” LMAO (got a visual).
    I never liked the “good morning” greeting myself. Just keep walking.

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    1. Just keeping walking. Good advice. And my nail person’s name is Lee Presson as if that matters. 🙂

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  4. My mom gave me a plaque that says “Good Morning is an oxymoron”. I never mix Good with Morning, either. It’s a running joke in my office that you won’t get a coherent thought or intelligible word out of me until I’ve had my first half-can of diet crack… roughly, about 9:30 or 10 am.

    Normally, it’s either a mumbled, growly “mornin”, a “yep”, or a guttural grumble as I shuffle to my desk. No eye contact made, of course. Don’t want them to see the murderous glare lurking there when they sparkle in my direction…

    My motto? “Persistently perky people piss me off”.
    End trans.

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    1. Awesome stuff. I forgot about the eye contact. Yes, that is a biggie. I begin to see why you hang out with me. I am grateful. 🙂

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