Confused dreams about eyelashes left me too addled to effectively manage my alarm this morning. Hitting “snooze” every nine minutes became a riddle I continuously failed for minutes at a time. Eventually, my fingers would accidently fall against the appropriate button, allowing me some brief reprieve, where I fell back into a Cocteauian montage of sphinx and self-betrayal.
To say that I finally awoke refreshed would be a gross exaggeration. Too many cigarettes and my mouth tastes like tar in the morning, though I persist in this slow suicide, like so many millions of others. Peer pressure is one thing. It’s blunt and tactless: “Be cool, smoke.” Peer reassurance, on the other hand; knowing that if I have a weakness then it’s one shared by multitudes. That’s my downfall, my death, and perhaps the explanation of the self-betrayal in my dreams.
More likely, it was the General Tsao’s chicken I finished off just before I went to bed. I still don’t get the eyelashes thing though.