This morning was just like every other morning. Alarm rings,
shattering the dreams, pulling me from realms of the subconscious. What I was
doing there will never be remembered, just like every other morning, but I can
only hope that it was somewhat interesting, compared to my boring life.
Life, in general, is boring. As much as I enjoy routines,
one can't help but feel to get bored from all the same-same sort of things that
we do over and over again daily. Of course, they're not exactly the same, but the
outline of the day becomes more or less becomes predictable once you get to
know the routine, if you know what I mean.
Of course, like any other day, I never, ever, ever, get out of bed on the first alarm.
It's the sole reason I have about three or four more set to ring at fifteen
minute intervals after the first one just to motivate my lazy ass out of bed,
and so far, it's been working pretty well.
In my sleepy, just-woke-up sort of morning haze that I
get for stumbling out of bed before sufficient rest is obtained, I auto-pilot
my way around the room, grabbing a towel and pulling off my pyjamas in the
process, before stumbling into the bathroom for a shower.
As usual, I went about my morning business, toilet,
shower, brush teeth, stare at eyebags, doze off a little bit, before going back
into my room to lie on the bed for those precious two to three more extra
minutes in a vain attempt to feel slightly more awake, as if that extra sleep
was compensation for the three-or-so hours that I missed for sleeping late last
night.
Again, my alarm rings, to my annoyance, and there's
always that thirty second moment where I contemplate between sleeping in and
staying at home or going to school, before my morals get the better of me and
drag my sleepy ass out of the room and downstairs, bag and heavy-ass laptop in
tow.
On a side note, I'd like to digress a little about my
daily routine here and mention how heavy
my laptop is, and I'm pretty sure that anyone who helps to carry it will
probably gain enough muscles to significantly improve their physical fitness.
No joke. It probably weighs (or at least, that what it feels like to me) as much as new born baby child, and if you carry
it around long enough, you'll probably be able to do more pull-ups or
something. You can ask me, actually, over the last semester or so that I've
lugged it around in school, the number of maximum pull-ups that I've been able
to do has improved by about fifty percent (four to six, quite the improvement).
Back to topic, as I reach the kitchen, I look to my watch
and note the time as my dog paws at my leg for breakfast, giving myself a sense
of how much time I'd have to do grab breakfast, feed the dog and go. Today I
had a solid fifteen minutes, which was not too bad considering the usual amount
of time I take to drag my sorry butt down here in the first place.
Fifteen minutes,
right. Three minutes to feed the dog, five minutes to prepare breakfast, ten
minutes to eat breakfast... By simple arithmetic calculations, that leaves
me with insufficient time to do any of the above listed items. Still, waltzing
into the kitchen at the insistence of my dog, I grab her bowl and proceed to
feed her anyway. It's cute how my dog likes things done in a routine, too. Her
breakfast is always a mixture of some dried dog-food pellet crap and some
canned meat, and she'll eat neither of the two of either of the two are
missing. The dog stops pawing at the
fabric of my pants with her rather blunt, yet oddly painful claws as she
notices me preparing her breakfast, and proceeds to wait on the floor
patiently, tail wagging in anticipation.
Opening the container of the dried dog-food-like stuff
presents an enticing, meaty, food-like sort of smell that almost always usually
smells better than the crap I eat in the morning (though I haven't had the
nerve actually eat one yet). I pour that out, before spooning a bit of canned
dog food meat-like stuff from a can in
the fridge, before setting it down for my dog and making my own.
Another glance at my watch tells me it's about a quarter
past seven and that I should be hurrying up. I give myself about half a bowl of
cereal and spam generous amounts of milk on my Koko Crunch, wolfing it down as
fast as I can before leaving it in the sink and running out the front door.
The first thing I do is to jam on a pair of socks, then
shoes, which are always left tied, but at that sort of tightness where one can
easily slip a foot into, but not loose enough for it to come out while running
around. I guess for me it's been sort of a convenience more than anything,
especially on days like this where its seven twenty and- OH SHIT I HAVE TO
LEAVE NOW.
Again, standard routine, push button to open front gate,
lock door, run out the front gate and tear down the street to the bus stop like
a madman, before I'm late for school. It's not that the bus comes once every
hour or something like that, this is Singapore. I have about thirteen different
bus services, each arriving at an average of five minute intervals (per
service) passing by the stop outside my house so catching the bus to school is
never an issue since almost all but one of them go directly to my school, but
traffic outside my house is always atrocious in the mornings, and one can never
be too careful about it, I suppose.
I've been late more times for school than I'd really like
to, and with the threat of suspension just looming over my head, being punctual
is essential for me.
As I board the first bus that passes by, I breathe a sigh
of relief, knowing that I probably will be on time. Rummaging through my bag, I
fish out a box of my favourite chewing gum and pop one into my mouth, before
leaning back into the seat of the bus as I partake in my morning commute to
school.
As mentioned, life is always so boring. Routines,
routines, routines, I can't help but feel bored. I always wake up and hope
something exciting happens, like waking up in a foreign land or something, but
that never really happens, much to my disappointment. Why doesn't anything cool
ever happen to me? It's like I'm destined to lead a boring life, but I always
hoping something happens.
Perhaps that's why I like to write stories. I can put
myself in another place, another time, or at least just twist things to make
life sort of... bearable, in many ways, keeping myself from being bored stiff
by daily routine. Perhaps there are other reasons, and I acknowledge that there
are, but of course, those are stories for another day, maybe I'll find courage
to tell them in the future.
