Ahhh, sweet slumber. The kind where your body finally stops twitching from yesterday’s chores and the blanket has molded perfectly to your shape. I’m out cold, dreaming of nothing, floating in pure bliss.

Then it begins.

A faint sound. Far away. Growing louder. Louder. Until it crashes into my skull like a marching band on a sugar high.

The alarm.

I swear I can hear it laugh.
“Wake up, old man. Your watch has ended.”

NOOOOOO. Didn’t I just close my eyes? Who invented mornings? They should be fired.

I pry open one eye. Still dark out. Fantastic. I reach for my phone—fumble, slap the lamp, knock over water, and finally silence the beast. I sink back into the pillow with the weight of a man who just fought in a war. Deep sigh. Just five more seconds… Victory.

Or so I think.

Thirty minutes later it strikes again. The villain has returned. Traitor. Now I’ve got negative time. My eyes shoot open—damn it!

I roll out of bed with a grunt that sounds like I’m giving birth to myself. I stumble into the bathroom, flip the switch. Blinding light. And there’s the guy in the mirror again. Smirking. “You’re losing this fight, champ.”

Business handled. Toothbrush in hand, toothpaste everywhere. Dried globs fossilized in the sink like archeological remains from the Jurassic period of bad hygiene. Who did this? My kids? Saboteurs. And the tube—squeezed in the middle like it just survived a bar fight. I grumble as I brush, foam hanging out of my mouth like a rabid Saint Bernard.

Shower time. I step in—ambushed immediately. The water is arctic. Then lava. Then back to arctic. Shampoo goes right in my eye. I fight the shower curtain for dominance as it clings to me like it’s trying to end my life. I thrash free, rinse off, and stumble out like a wet gladiator.

I dress in a hurry. But socks? Gone. AGAIN. Where do they go? Somewhere in the house, there’s a sock kingdom plotting my downfall. Fine—mismatched socks. Today I’m rocking one black, one blue. Fight me.

Breakfast? Ha! I open the fridge: half a gallon of milk (expired), juice with exactly one sip left (WHO leaves ONE SIP?), and a Tupperware container glowing suspiciously, like it might be radioactive. Forget it. I settle for slightly burnt toast—because that’s the only setting our toaster knows—and a smear of butter. Then I grab my emergency backup: a tiny canned Starbucks espresso. Just enough caffeine to make me slightly less undead.

Keys. Wallet. Phone. Out the door.

In the car, press the ignition, car rumbles to life. Radio explodes with a synth-heavy 80s track. I drop my head onto the steering wheel, sighing, trying to gather myself for another day of dad duties.

And then—

The alarm again.

Wait—what?!

I’m still in bed.

The villain laughs in my ear.
“Nice try, Dad. You’ll never win.”

I stare at the ceiling, defeated. 

Life is cruel.

Coffee, take me away…

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