Mindless Monday

I slapped the hell out of my alarm clock this morning. Not because it went off at 4AM, I expected that part. I didn’t expect Ill Bill to be screaming the lyrics to “War Is My Destiny” over hard driving bass and drum lines, though. The cacophony yanked me from sleep, and as I tossed off the covers my sole thought was, “Kill whatever that is; kill it before it kills you.” With that, I almost broke my Sony Dream Machine. This amusing, near-coronary-inducing moment was brought you by lack of mindfulness.

Mindfulness involves freeing the mind from thoughts of the past, future, or some other disconnected irrelevant thought and focusing solely on the present moment, thoughts, and actions. I wasn’t mindful when setting my iPod. So instead of waking to either classical or jazz music, which is the norm, it was a song from one of my workout playlists. A song designed to get me through that last mile on a run, or help me churn out that last rep. Frightening, comical, and educational. I ain’t making it up.

Hanging on Easter Sunday

Turns out, Easter Sunday is as good a day as any other to work off a hangover. It’s just as easy to get lost in the sofa, grab the remote, and pray for death on Easter Sunday as it is on any other day. It’s just as easy for the Swedish women’s volleyball team to hold spiking drills in my cerebellum on Easter Sunday as it is on any other day. It’s just as easy to consume enough liquid to fill the Indian Ocean and not pee on Easter Sunday as it is on any other day. Yep, Easter Sunday is as good as any other day to work off a hangover.

Turns out, that’s not exactly true. Most Sundays, Easter or otherwise, are spent grocery shopping, cooking, and prepping for the week. All of this entails a skosh of planning and running around, which assumes the ability to concentrate and at least a facsimile of energy. I got bupkis.

Concentrate? Maybe if it involves Cote de Pablo’s ass and alluring, albeit feigned, accent—I’m watching the NCIS marathon. Beyond that, I’m having trouble following and grasping commercials. Energy? I can’t change channels without slumping into a coma. No doubt, it took me hours to hammer out this post. So this week’s getting off to a rocky start. But I wouldn’t change a thing. Last night was sublime; perfectly sublime. I ain’t making it up.

Randomness

What if once a year we sent out “FUCK YOU” cards? Once a year, we compose a “FUCK YOU” card list and send each person on that list a “FUCK YOU” card; replete with big, bold King Kong font. Just sit down, compose a list, fill out cards, go to the mailbox and drop them in. Fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you; oh and definitely fuck you.

Puerility aside, I’m staring at a collection of Christmas cards. Christmas cards I received last year. Presumably from people who know me. People who know I’m an atheist. People who sat down, filled out a card, went to the mailbox and dropped it in. Fuck you. Merry Christmas. The thing is, I think it's hilarious. I ain't making it up.