Category Archives: Uncategorized

Summer Poetry

I have never really tried my hand at poetry, but I couldn’t shake these words ringing in my head.  Although I am feeling a little hesitant and vulnerable, I thought I would just put myself “out there” in order to allow you to continue to hear the voices in my head—even when they are shouting from the less masculine side of my nature.

With the end of Summer break upon us, I’ve recently reflected upon the last handful of months.  My boys are back in school—one of which is starting his high school career.  When did I become the father of a freshman student?  Crazy.  So here goes (I’m a little nervous), a completely original poem written solely by myself which I will simply title:

Summer of 2013

Welcome to the new age, to the new age
oh, oh, oh, I’m radioactive.

I’m gonna take a good girl
I know you want it
You’re far from plastic
I hate these blurred lines

I’m up all night to get some
She’s up all night for good fun
I’m up all night to get lucky

I’m waking up, I feel it in my bones
Enough to make my systems blow

You make me wanna roll my windows down
…and cruise

I know you want it

This poem, my one hundred percent original poem, simply wrote itself.  I was just hanging out this summer, listening to the radio, and the words just came to me.  That doesn’t normally happen, so I hope you enjoyed it.

Unrelated to the poem composed above, these other words came to me too:  Copyright infringement, Florida Georgia Line, Cruise, Imagine Dragons, Radioactive, Daft Punk, Get Lucky, Robin Thicke, Blurred Lines.  Although these words don’t seem to flow as nice as my completely original poem, I thought I would include them here anyway.  I’m not exactly sure why I feel compelled to do so, but my gut feeling says that it may be for the best.

There once was a book from me.
Who’s contents were filled with glee.

…never mind.  I think my poetry career ended before it began.

Murder in the Cul-de-sac

There is a dead raccoon in the middle of my street.  I once believed that my neighborhood was safe.  My now murder runs rampant, everyone is a suspect.

My street is a short cul-de-sac.  Beyond the road kill, there are only ten driveways.  Each of these houses are occupied by couples with children are not yet old enough to drive.  Which means, of the eighteen drivers that call themselves my neighbors, one of them is a raccoon murderer.  Nineteen if you count my wife.  Twenty, if you think I should be a suspect too.

Did you know that cul-de-sac is Swedish for “no-way-out”?  Use that fact the next time you’re looking to impress someone with your sophisticated knowledge base.

My wife is out of town this weekend.  The lifeless carcass was discovered shortly after her departure.  What if the slaughterer-of-Rocky is actually the woman I call my wife?

Did you know that cul-de-sac translated in old English actually means “raccoon-death-trail”?

Now, I have to look at my neighbors in a completely different light.  All of their behavior seems suspicious to me.  Was that my neighbor’s garage door that I heard in the middle of the night?  It could have been.  I think it was.

Did you know that Native Americans used the term cul-de-sac as a way of saying “you-hit-it-you-clean-it-up”?

It seems to me that everyone on my street has reduced the time it takes to get their car into the garage as quickly as possible. Was that a little patch of fur on your front bumper?

Did you know that when using American Sign Language to convey the word “cul-de-sac” it is a common mistake to interpret the hand motions to mean “would-someone-please-clean-that-crap-up-already”?

Somewhere out there in the nine houses surrounding mine, is a cold blooded killer pushed over the edge by the crazed nocturnal beast with an appetite for household garbage.  If only their garbage can lids snapped shut with a resounding click.

Did you know that if you use the term cul-de-sac in Western Australia, you might be mistaken for saying “someone-needs-to-push-it-into-the-sewer-before-it-starts-to-stink”?

Rest in peace, my little night dwelling consumer of household garbage.  May your afterlife be one big gigantic landfill.

In most translations, cul-de-sac actually means “buy-my-books”.

Hot Cars Kill Dogs

Recently I have seen a sharp increase in a particular message being display on my Facebook newsfeed.  “Hot Cars Kill Dogs”.  Many of my friends have posted this message as a plea to help the poor animals.   I find this statement just slightly misleading.  The car isn’t killing the animal, the owner is.  It’s time to wake up and stop blaming the vehicle.

But what I find even more perplexing is why the owners of hot cars kill more dogs than the owners of average cars.  Almost all models of the Jaguar and the Porsche brand names are considered “hot” cars.  What happens to the mind of the owners of these hot cars after they purchase their hot vehicles?  Suddenly they become blood thirsty with the strong desire to kill household pets.  What is difference between them and people who purchase a Honda Accord or a Chevrolet Aveo?

Average cars:  Honda, Chevy:  Dog lovers

Hot cars:  Jaguar, Porsche:  Dog slayers

Frank just bought a Porsche, now when people walk their dog across his sidewalk, he chases them down and he kicks the helpless animal.

Bob just bought a Honda, now he volunteers at the neighborhood animal shelter.

Can you image how much hatred of dogs must course through the veins of the owners of a Lamborghini or a Ferrari?  These cars are extremely hot cars.  I’d bet that if you ran a nationwide survey of missing dog reports and correlate the results to areas surrounding households in which the owners possess a Ferrari, you will find significant overlapping statistics.

You need more evidence?

I just finished watching the final installment of the Twilight movie series with my family.  In case you live on the moon (Netflix won’t ship DVDs there), this series of movies was about the Cullen family—a family of vampires.  In this story, the vampire named Edward drove a hot silver Volvo S60R and he was a blood sucking consumer of animals, some of which I’m sure were dogs.  Rosalie drove a BMW M3 convertible; a very hot car.  She too enjoyed eating helpless animals.  Carisle’s Mercedes S55 AMG was another hot automobile and once again, she would enjoy a good dog roast.

Bella, prior to her transformation into a vampire, was driving a beat-up red pickup truck.  Not a hot vehicle at all.  She had no desire to drink the blood of dogs.  None what-so-ever.

Oh no!  Was that a movie spoiler?  I’m sorry.  I should have written “Spoiler Alert”.  Obviously, I’m not that sorry since I still have a chance to edit this piece.  Odd.

And speaking of spoilers, you know those “tail fins”, otherwise known as spoilers, that young men place on the edge of their car’s trunk in order to make their car appear slightly faster without any costly changes to the engine.  Yeah, I’ll bet those boys suddenly have a slight, but noticeable urge, to trip dogs down a flight of stairs.  I’ll have to do more research.

(blogging trend goes here:  wrap up your article by asking questions)

Are you now suspicious of people driving hot cars?

What kind of hot car do you drive?

How many dogs have you killed?

Buy my hot book (which statistically has no dog killing correlations)

Voices in Pictures

This blog entry is what would happen if I wrote a picture book.   Pictures are not necessarily my thing–I enjoy words more than photos.  I very rarely include photos in my blog.  So this is me going too far with pictures.  …hopefully still enjoyable for you.

All of the following pictures were created by me.  Please share them at your desire.  This collection of photos is not one of those “share everything that is already floating about the web and that you have already seen on seventeen people’s Facebook pages”.  Perhaps I can make you smile with photo captions.  Let’s try.

ashtree

That was the biggest tree in my yard.  “Was” is the key word here–stupid Ash Tree Bug.   It has since been replaced with a much smaller tree.  I’d invite you over to sit in the shade of my new tree that we put in place of this one, but the shade created only provides shade for one person.  I’ll pencil you in for the summer of 2034.  See you then.

crawpudding

Apparently my mother failed to tell me not to play with my food.  And who would actually raise that thing to their mouth?  It’s looking at you while you’re about to eat its head.  Creepy.

dogpee

My dog has a question for you.

europeansoda

Perhaps my dog’s question was: What happens after you drink a bunch of European Soda?

fruitcracks

How can you not like this fruit?  I’ve never purchased it so I don’t know what it tastes like, but it makes me smile.  And I always take the time to arrange them properly when I pass by them.

happyeggs

Apparently eggs make me smile too.

healthylinving

I thought this picture was so awesome that I included it in my book.  Healthy Living and Candy in the same aisle.  My kind of store…

holybread

Too much time on my hands.  Someone pass the butter, please.

hooterssause

Did you know that you can get wings at Hooters?  I usually just ask for a glass of water and sit behind my sunglasses.

mexican

The same store that sells that “Healthy Candy” also attempts to hide the good mexican food.  Make sure you walk all the way down this aisle.  Don’t settle for the fake mexican food.

pringlesseason

And when exactly does Pringles Season end.  I need to stock up for the off-season.

pubesandhoses

When artistically designing a sign for your small business, don’t make the “T” look like a “P”.  Would you stop in and browse around at Pubes and Hoses?  I kept driving.

slowcookerhooker

Thank you Hamilton Beach for bringing to the public the world’s first set of “Slow Cookers for Hookers”.

speedhumps

Perhaps with the invention of the Slow Cookers for Hookers there will be extra time to slow things down a bit.

thought_graph

This is an accurate representation of how my wife’s brain works.  Although there probably should have been an extra bump in the level drawn in just after she lays down to fall asleep.

woodplug

Naturally occurring electricity without all that pesky lightning.

Buy my book which includes a handful of pictures.

Fish Abuse

I went out to dinner with my wife last night.  We went to this Irish pub across town—nice place.  I got the fish and chips.  She got the battered shrimp and fries.

My fish was quite good and I believe my wife enjoyed her meal as well, but I have to say that I feel bad that the shrimp came from a world of violence.  I’m not sure how you prepare battered shrimp, but I believe it would taste just as good without going through the whole beating that clearly leaves an emotional scar underneath the physical pounding.

My fish was gently placed into the basket above the deep fryer, slowly lowered into the warm bath of oils, gently placed upon the plate to relax, rest, and cuddle up to the over-privileged side of chips.

My wife’s shrimp lived a short painful existence.  The abuse probably started as a youngster.  Abused as a child, the other shrimp wouldn’t let them play any shrimp games.  If only it would have learned to fly and pull a sled!

Its adult life bought a daily verbal assault.  The cook would ridicule it in front of the pampered scampi.  It never once was told just how beautiful it truly was.  I simply wish that all battered shrimp across the entire ocean would recognize that there is a place they can go for help.  Shrimp don’t have to live the battered life. sadshrimp

It was sad to see how the shrimp ended up.  Where my fish were honored to be served up on the same plate with hearty potato wedges, her shrimp were cast aside and left to fend themselves in silence with the strung out normal fries.

Stop the battering of shrimp.  There is a place to go for help.

Buy my books and a portion of the proceeds will go toward my next order of shrimp cocktail.

Spam: A Good Idea–Click!

Why does e-mail spam continue?  Who is clicking on this crap thinking in their head, “Well now that is a bargain for me!” or “This will make my life easier!” or even “Yeah, I really do wish mine was bigger.”

The following is a rundown of only a small portion of the spam that is currently trapped in my spam folder.  It sits there patiently waiting for me to push the “select all” button followed by the “delete permanently” button.  I wish there was a “find the people who put me on this list and hang them from the ceiling fan by their toenails” button.  Which could be followed by the “and then turn it on high” button.

Subsidized Solar Power:  Apparently the government of the United States of America wants me to convert to solar power.  So much so that they are willing to subsidize the entire project—costing me absolutely nothing!  I think this explains the van with dark windows parked at my curb for the last couple of weeks.  Clearly I’m under surveillance.  I can sometimes actually hear them when I get home.  “The buzzard has landed, the juice is flowing, and the sun has not risen.”  I believe this is government spy talk:  I have arrived home, turned on my lights, and not yet installed my 100% absolutely free solar panel package.

Learn a New Language in 10 Days or Enhance Your Career with a Second Language:  In just ten days?  That is awesome.  I’m clicking it.  And in just ten days I should be appointed to the position CEO.  Can you imagine all of the La Benefitios that will be presented to El Meo?  I’m getting started right awayo.

Rich Prince Needs Your Help:  There is a certain rich prince out there in our big world who apparently is attempting to launder his money into my country.  His goal for the money is noble.  He wants to fund an orphanage where years earlier he sent his children to in order to protect them from the evils of his own country.  I can personally help him by providing him my checking account number so that he can deposit millions of dollars in my account.  I have been instructed to then write a check back to his charity and keep whatever amount I see fit to pay for the service I am providing.

I’m in!  And with the money I earn from my provided services I going to install solar panels on my neighbor’s houses too!  And then I’m going to learn his language in a very short period of time so that I can thank him in his native tongue.  Oh rich prince, thank goodness you haven’t hear of Western Union.  I’m here for you.

Meet Lonely Wives: There are apparently a zillion lonely housewives out there desperately seeking the companionship of me.  Yeah, that’s right, me!  You see, their husbands are off traveling the world of business in order to provide a decent income for their household.  Although this leaves these women reasonably comfortable in their lifestyles, it does very little to provide for their personal needs.  The spam e-mail explains that these lonely souls are extremely abundant across the country and with just a click of the mouse, I can be connected to hundreds of them right in my local area!  There is a real website dedicated to “hooking us up”.

How long has this loneliness been going on?  It’s a travesty; although, I think I can fix this!  I’m going to present this to my beautiful wife of almost seventeen years.  Clearly she will understand the plight of these women and together we will visit each and every one of them.  As a team, we will be there for them.  I can’t wait to connect with them over a nice lunch, and just simply be there for them, listen to their problems, perhaps watch their children for the day so they can relax.  I know some of them aren’t as comfortable in their money as they claim.  It’s so obvious to me because some of them couldn’t even afford shirts before they got their picture taken for the web site.  I’ll be sure to donate some clothing to them in order to save them the embarrassment before my wife and I meet them for lunch.

Christian Singles:  How do I get on these spam lists?  There is only so much time in the day.  But, after my wife and I tackle the growing problem of lonely wives, we will begin a journey to meet each one of these Christian singles.  Clearly they can learn a great deal from the experiences of our long-lasting wonderful marriage.

Hook up with my books.

Tom Petty Lyrics

I was listening to Tom Petty on the radio.  I was cruising down the highway heading home from a long day at work.  The song “I Won’t Back Down” fires up on the radio.  It brings back memories of a time long ago: my college years.  I was probably a freshman or a sophomore at Ohio University.  I don’t remember the exact year the song was released and I’m not going to Google it for you.  Man, are you lazy—wanting me to Google something for you.

For those of you who may not know this classic song, it’s an inspirational song sung in an upbeat tempo.  A song about standing your ground regardless of what the world throws at you.  The opening verse is made up of the following lyrics.

Well I won’t back down, no I won’t back down
You could stand me up at the gates of hell
But I won’t back down

So I’m singing along with Tom using my voice at top volume.  I sing pretty awesome in my car, with the windows up, and when I’m alone.  You’d be impressed.  But then the voices in my head started thinking a bit too much about the lyrics.

That first line: “Well I won’t back down, no I won’t back down

Ok Tom.  You’ve started off by really stressing your point.  Twice.  I get it.  Obviously it’s important to you.  You sir, are not about to back down.  But, do you really talk that way in real life?

“Tom, you want something to drink?”

“Well I’ll have a cup of coffee, yes I’ll have a cup of coffee.”

“Ya, alright Tom.  You seem to be repeating yourself.  Do you want one or two cups?  Because I’m a little confused.”

The next line is really odd when you think about it:  “You could stand me up at the gates of hell

Tom.  Tom.  Tom.  Do you always arrange meetings in such horrible places?

“Say Tom, where do you want to meet for coffee?”

“How about the gate of hell?  I know of this little shop near there.  The coffee is always piping hot.  You’re going to love it.”

“There is a very strong possibility of me standing you up.”

Seriously, why does Tom think that anyone would want to meet him at the gates of hell?  He hit the nail on the head when he was speculating that his friend may be standing him up.  Who’s going there willingly?  Maybe he could have changed it up a little bit.

“You can stand my up at the DMV.”

I guess that’s not really any different: the Department of Motor Vehicles and the Gates of Hell.  Yeah, same thing.

He continues, “But I won’t back down.”

So Tom, just to be clear.  You’re going to be hanging out at the gates of hell long after your friends have stood you up.  And yet, you’re not about to back down.  No sir.  You have stamina.  You will hang out at the gates of hell as long as it takes, desperately clinging to the hope that your friend will change his or her mind and meet you at the fiery gates.  You know, maybe this is one of those times where throwing in the towel isn’t such a bad thing.  Relax Tom.  Back down just a little bit.  Maybe you should walk back down a block or two and turn a corner—somewhere so the gates of hell aren’t in your direct line of sight.  I strongly suspect that more of your friends will reach out to you if you start hanging out in safer neighborhoods.

Fine.  Don’t back down.  Keep arranging your little meetings any way you see fit.

Buy my books, yes buy my books.

Lawn Maintenance

Spring is finally in the air.  Spring has sprung and perhaps this time for good.  This year it has falsely sprung about three times already and then fell back into freezing.  The flowers are actually on their third attempt at growing through the unexpected frosty mornings.  During this time of year in Cincinnati, you turn your heat on at night and the air conditioner in the afternoon.  The plants in our yard have that I’m-green-but-a-little-pissed-off look to them.

All the natural signs of Spring are here.  I can tell its Spring because there are flyers on my door from companies that want to cut and trim my lawn.  There are neighborhood children that think they can do a better job than the professionals using their parent’s mower.  There is junk mail filling my mailbox from companies that want to treat my lawn for a “thicker greener look”.  And there are signs posted at the end of every street enticing you to invest in their aerating business.

To those neighborhood children that want to cut my lawn:  I have two fresh teenage boys (13 and 14) that live in my house.  They provide no income and honestly put a serious drain on my financial bottom line.  No thank you, but I have my own grass cutters here.

This morning I drove by a sign that stated:

“Aerate your lawn!  $60 to $80!  Call us at 555-9296.”

I don’t actually remember the phone number, so for this story I went with the Hollywood phone number thing.  Three fives are never a real number.  Hollywood is so kind like that.  “I don’t want to cause the torment of some random dude by accidentally picking his phone number and using it in our script, but I do want to act like it’s a real phone number when I deliver my line.  I want to be convincing.  Like Hamlet.”

“The number you have reach 5 5 5 (pause) 8 4 8 2 is not a real number.  Who do you think you are, Shakespeare?”

So back to the company with the sign for aeration states a range of $60 to $80.  How does that pricing work?  If they like you and think you’re a nice person, its $60.  If not, its $80?  Maybe you get to pick your price after they finish.

“You know I was going to be all cheap about it and only pay you $60, but you surprised me by not skipping that area in the back behind my trees and you actually made two passes in the front.  I’m paying you $72 dollars today.  Good work.  Oh wait, that’s $72 dollars after taxes and you have to do the math.”

I’d pay them more, but now my yard looks as though there was a wild geese convention in full swing last night.

My favorite mail flyer comes from the company which calls itself “ChemLawn”.  I think they are in the process of trying to change their name to “TruGreen”, but it still says ChemLawn.  I think it’s a riot that the company choose its name long before the “green” bandwagon started rolling through town.  The name ChemLawn is a made up of two parts.  The first part “Chem” is short for Chemical.  The second part “Lawn” is short for Lawnical.  I think.

Here is a slogan that you won’t see them using:  “We treat your lawn organically.  We are ChemLawn!  Not.  Just joking!”

Can you picture back to the original board meetings held when the company was just starting out?

“Yeah, and we’ll dump so much chemical in their yards that there grass will glow green at night time.  Dude, people are going to love this!”

Now, in more recent greener times.

“No man, Chem isn’t short for Chemical.  It’s short for, um let me think here, oh yeah, it’s short for Chemo.  Yeah, like chemotherapy.  We are trying to eradicate the dandelion-cancers in your yard.”

“Hey Marcus, an attempt at cancer humor probably is not a funny thing.  You’re a bad person”, said everyone.

Good luck ChemLawn, or I mean, TruGreen.

Buy my “green” book.  Actually the cover is blue, but the electronic version uses no paper!

Blog Info

In our last episode, we were left hanging on the edge of our seats watching Marcus as he plummeted off the edge of creativity and was cascading viciously toward a rock solid enormous chunk of writer’s block.  Totally out of control, today’s episode begins with Marcus throwing in the towel, and summarizing some of his blog statistics—a feat that he swore to himself that he would never result in doing.

“Crap, I’m really going to do it”, said Marcus with a completely defeated look on his face.

My blog passed by the ten thousand hit mark recently.  Impressive?  Yes, it is very impressive that I managed to visit my own page about five thousand times.

The most visits in a one day period totaled 230 visitors.  And I was only one of them!

Alright, maybe I was thirty of them.

Or forty.

To date, my blog has been viewed in 82 countries.  The top three being: the USA, the United Kingdom, and Canada.  Far down the list is Morocco.  Proving once again that Moroccoians love Marcus.

To date I have had 1171 comments left by people reading my blog entries.  And I thank each and every one of you for ensuring me that I’m not just blogging to myself.  Thanks!  Since I strive to always respond to each comment left by all you awesome blog readers , it means that I’ve only actually had 585.5 comments from actual readers.  The other half of the count comes from my own response comments.  This leaves me wondering, who left me the half of comment?  Or perhaps someone left me a quarter of a comment and I responded with a quarter of a response.  I don’t remember doing that.  I can’t image myself not finishing my complete train of

WordPress, the host of my blog, provides statistics on what search engine terms people have used that led them to my blog.  By far (like by a whole bunch), the term “crossing the street” is the most frequent search term.  A good long while ago, I wrote a piece about geese crossing the street.  It was amusing I thought.  Then, later, I wrote a follow on piece detailing the anonymous nasty-gram I got for being “cruel to animals”.  My point being, I understand how the search for “crossing the street” might lead you to my blog, however, I can’t understand the train of thought that possesses someone to ask Google for information pertaining to the task of crossing the street.  And it’s not just one person, in fact, its many people.  To date, there have been over sixty-five variations of “crossing the street” searches that resulted in people visiting my blog.  For example, “crossing the street”, “cross the street”, “crossing the road”, and my personal favorite “crossing the street without looking”.  What information are these people trying to coax out of Google that they couldn’t figure out on their own?  Basically you need to look both ways and then proceed when there appears to be the lowest possibility of bodily harm.

Is there the possibility of the existence of groups of people out there trapped on their property because they don’t own a computer?  These tormented people having no access to Google in order to assist them with the daunting task of street crossing.  There must be people who walk down their driveways, get to the end, become confused with the change from sideway to roadway, stare mystified into the void of the car dwelling space, throw their hands up, and run back in the house in an absolute dumfounded stupor.

They’re out there.

Buy my book from the same side of the street that you’re on.

Sleeping In

Sound asleep.  That was me until my alarm started beeping and bonking.  My first emotion of the day was disappointment.  Here’s why.

It was Saturday.  A day to actually sleep in.  Nothing to do.  Sleep until your body says done.  These days, my Saturday-sleep-in is usually cancelled because I’m a professional chauffeur.  My teenage boys need to be at the school for something or on the fields for something else.  And I am the driver.

I guess I’m not really a professional.  That would imply that I’m getting paid for my services.  How many professional chauffeurs drop their clients off and then have to fork over five bucks so that their clients can buy a drink and a hot dog?  I’m guessing “none” is the answer.  But how awesome would that be?  A stupid chauffeur that pays you.

“Sir, we have reached your destination.  Let me get the door for you.  And sir, here is your tip.”  The driver hands you a five-spot.

“Shouldn’t I be tipping you?”

“Oh, is that how it should work?”

“No, your way is good.  But now I can’t believe that you actually got us here safely.”

“Are you calling me stupid?”

“Sort of.”

“Oh.  Alright, here is five more dollars.”

Back on track.  This Saturday I had nothing planned.  No morning events at all.  Boys sleeping in like the good little teenage slugs that they should be.  But there was my alarm—yelling at me like the angry little chunk of electronics that it is.  Rude really.  I rolled over to shut it off, cursing it the whole time.  Bad electronics.  Stupid electronics.  If I had any water left in my nightstand glass you would become smoking electronics.  Who makes the mistake of setting the alarm on a Saturday?  People with evil electronics, that’s who.

With the disappointed emotion in full swing, I turned off the alarm.  Silence again.  Relax.  I can get over this situation.  I can find sleep once again.  And just as I was returning to the dream world, it occurred to me.  It hit me like a ton of bricks—which is a really odd figure of speech.  How unfortunate do you have to be to get hit with a ton of bricks?  Where do you need to be standing to have this happen?  They probably don’t come flying in from the left or right.  They most likely would have to fall from above your head.  My recommendation is to avoid placing yourself just below any apparatus that is holding a ton of bricks—regardless of how stable it looks.  Do not stand below any congregation of a ton of bricks—ever.

So yeah, it hit me.  Today isn’t Saturday, its Friday.  A ton of bricks, landing on my face!  I have to get up for work!  Crap, this is far worse than I originally imagined.  Oh electronics, you are way smarter than I give you credit for.

Hey wait a minute!  Did I really just shut off the alarm?  I should have pushed snooze!  Oh electronics, please magically reset your alarm.  I didn’t mean to shut you off.  I’m sorry I called you names.  You’re awesome electronics, really.  I’m way too groggy to fiddle with your buttons right now.

Now I have to get out of bed without taking my first-thing-in-the-morning-nine-minute-nap.  Now I have to pretend that I have the ability to snooze and wake up after nine minutes automatically—all by myself.  But I don’t have the skills!  This is horrible.

And then I found myself standing on my feet.  I have only the electronics to blame.  Idiot electronics.

Buy my silent book.  It’ll let you sleep in.