Good Morning. I Hate Your Face.

Waking up before 8:30 or 9:00 in the AM sucks cabbage.  It's not right, and to the lazily inclined, downright inhumane.  It's an assault to the senses, jarred into consciousness by some obnoxious noise generating device.  Everything was going so well.  Eyes shut tight.  Breathing pattern steady and effortless.  Scenarios of a more pleasant atmosphere playing across the IMAX screen of REM.

Twinkle-Beep-Bing, time to get up.

And what is so important and pertinent that one must crackle dormant joints out of the blessed cozy?

Ballroom dance.  Even worse, video taping ballroom dance.  So for the next several days every waking moment is dedicated to the aforementioned task.  Gross.  It's an interesting job until the novelty wears down.  The novelty definitely wore down.  Now it's just raw and bloody.

So, enough of this party.  Time to earn some rent.