I'm working mornings this week. I don't work mornings often and when I do, it's usually only for a week or two. Not NEARLY long enough to get into any kind of healthy sleeping pattern. That means I become one Warmed Brain Salad away from turning into a full-blown zombie. I swear, I cry, I try to rationally explain to my dog why she doesn't need to bark at the mailman EVERY DAMN DAY, I resort to yelling at my dog when the rational explanations don't work, and eventually (usually about a week into the morning shift) I become convinced that my houseplants are talking to me. The English Ivy next to the front door is a particularly unpleasant bitch, and also the ringleader of their insidious little houseplant gang. I am SO on to them. They don't even know.
I can feel air molecules touching me. They are pointy. Everyone on the bus looks like they want to steal my purse, but they can't have my purse, because THAT'S WHERE I KEEP MY STUFF. Everything I sit on is itchy. I can hear colours. Green is fairly quiet, but orange sounds like Bobcat Goldthwait if his throat were made of a blender and he'd just swallowed ball bearings and they hadn't gone all the way down yet and they were bouncing around in the blender blades.
If it's below 5 Celsius, I'm convinced I will freeze solid but still be alive and aware, and my dog will lick away all my skin because I'd basically be a delicious meat popsicle and it would take weeks for me to die and I would feel it the whole time as my skin is slowly licked away. If it's above 30 Celsius, I can feel the individual threads in my clothing punching me.
My eyes stop working properly......or do they start working BETTER?..... I can see things SO SMALL that they might technically not exist. Yet I apparently can't see the wall next to my bathroom, since I keep walking the fuck into it.
But nothing compares to the most horrific thing of all. The one thing most inhumane about working mornings. The one, terrible thing that – try as I might – I cannot escape. There seems to be no physical way to avoid it, even though I KNOW you will say there is. But you don't know. Oh, how you don't know. It's mesmerizing. It's addictive. It's like getting gonnorreah and herpes and ebola in your eyes and ears all at the same time, but the gonnorreah and herpes and ebola have unicorn dust in them, and it TRICKS YOU into thinking you want it.
I hate you, Daytime TV.
I hate Oprah and Tyra and Rachel Ray and Dr. Oz and The Doctors and OH MY CRAP I HATE DR. PHIL. Dr. Phil is the Asshole Neighbour of Life in General. He has an opinion on EVERYTHING and HE IS WRONG ABOUT IT ALL. Will disect him later – though, sadly, not literally. And, even more sadly, not while he's still alive and paralyzed with that stuff that leaves you alive and paralyzed so you can feel yourself being disected. I think I saw that on TV once on that show Law and Order: CSI.
Oprah is a bitch. I know it, you know it, and everyone in the whole wide world knows it. She's all understanding and interested and caring, but you just KNOW she is a bitch. And she thinks she's so awesome. It wasn't enough that she had her own TV show. Noooooooooo – she has her own magazine. And her picture is on the cover of every single issue. Gosh, Oprah, I'm sorry you weren't told enough when you were little how pretty you were, and now you have to put your face on a magazine every month to make yourself feel better. And she's going to have her own TV channel. Thank GOD. I was so worried I'd never be able to find a place to watch hour after hour of Misunderstood Celebrity Explains Why He Called Jewish People Bad Words That He Really Didn't Mean To Say, or How To Make The Most Out of Your Life Even Though All You Do Is Sit At Home And Watch a Shitty TV Network.
And Tyra. Oh, Tyra – you are so FIERCE! You don't suck AT ALL. You don't have a freakishly large forehead or misconceptions about just how inspiring you are to chubby teenagers and girls with zits. They TOTALLY think you get how they feel. You are JUST LIKE THEM!
Rachel Ray is legally retarded.
Dr. Oz is the least offensive. He at least provides useful information. Too bad his audience is filled with pantsuit-clad women who are psychotically in love with him and scream til they pee every time he shows them what the inside of their stomach looks like after they've eaten eight pounds of ice cream sprinkled with salt.
What can I say about The Doctors? Nothing much, because I black-out whenever I watch it, and when I've come to I discover I've somehow used my toenails to scratch “WHY DOES THAT MORON WEAR SCRUBS ALL THE TIME ON A TV SHOW? DOES HE THINK A MEDICAL EMERGENCY WILL BREAK OUT IN THE AUDIENCE EVERY DAY EVEN THOUGH SO FAR IT'S NEVER HAPPENED? AND HOW COME HE TALKS LIKE A SURFER-STEREOTYPE WHO'S BEEN HIT IN THE HEAD WITH THAT HEAVY LID-THINGIE ON THE BACK OF A TOILET? DOCTORS SHOULDN'T TALK LIKE THAT” into my living room floor.
If I believed in Satan, I'd believe he was Dr. Phil. As I type this, he's talking about fame whores who will do anything to be famous. Hmmm, like perhaps become Oprah's bestest friend when Texas gets mad at her for saying something (I don't remember what or really care) about cows? And then maybe start appearing on her show even though you're just a hack psychiatrist or something? And then maybe get your own show because everyone must care a whole lot about what you have to say? And then write books about how not to be fat even though you're not exactly an Olympic athlete yourself? Eat shit, Dr. Phil. Stop being on my TV. Even when your show isn't on my TV, my TV can still feel you inside it, raping it with your stupid southern twang. And everyone can tell you're wearing, like, AN INCH of pancake makeup -- even on your big, empty bald head. And that thing at the end of each show where you walk into the audience, take your wife's hand, and walk out together – I call bullshit on that. She hates you. There's no way she sits in the audience for each and every one of your crappy shows. The producers sneak her in three minutes before you're done, and they pay her to stay with you but behind your back she's having an affair with her tennis instructor Fernando. Think about it, Dr. Phil – have you ever SEEN her play tennis? No, you haven't. That's because Fernando is taking the money you give him for lessons and he's using it to buy silk sheets to boink your wife on.
If I ever get a full time job working mornings, I'm going to have to cancel cable.
And I'm going to have to kill the houseplants. I can hear what they have planned. It's me or them. If you don't hear from me after this, they won. Check in the basement for what's left of my body. And NO ONE is to give those murderous bastards ANY WATER, no matter how much they beg. Understand???
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