Dear Sir or Madam,
I would like to protest the morning. I am smoking too many cigarettes. (cough, cough-spit.) There is sleep in my eyes and I would like it to go away. Rubbing only agitates. The morning is for the birds. I feel like I could vomit pancakes all over a waffle house of ill repute. Surely you understand there’s no need for the morning. A day is hard work enough. I have heard about a great haiku master who composes at dawn. His writing isn’t worth a damn, I don’t even think he had a coffee yet. While I’m well aware that I compose this in the am hours it is only to show you the inherit madness of this morning. The wind blows. It really does this morning and I certainly have no desire to go out into it and start living. Like I said, it blows. The morning is killing me. It fools me with hope—the whole light through the blinds thing, when I awake. A farce really, because you know as well as I do there’s nothing out there but another hangover and I didn’t even drink last night. I’m going back to bed now please don’t bother me tomorrow with waking up.
Yours,
Daniel J. Flore III
P.S.
I find my anxiety level to be very high upon waking in the morning. If I get a note from my doctor, will you then cease and desist? You bastard, you probably aren’t even listening, you’re probably at Starbucks.