No, but really.
Why do mornings exist?
I mean, if you’re a farmer I get it. You want to tend to the crops before they get sleepy or whatever. You want to milk the cows before they all trot off to the dance clubs. You want to bathe in the blood of our animalistic brethren early enough in the day, so that when it comes time to sleep you’ve doused your morals with a bottle or two of whiskey*.
But I’m not a farmer. I don’t milk cows. I mean I have milked cows a couple of times, but it was recreational milking. Completely innocuous. Maybe a little personal at the end, but sometimes we form connections with cows. Whatever.
Point is, I used to go to bed at like 7 in the morning. It was great. Admittedly insane for a variety of reasons, but great. I’d watch the sunrise and go to bed. That’s so cool!
Sure, the lack of sunlight wasn’t great for the tan, but this gay vampire sparkled like the bloodsucking little heathen he was. And it was great. He loved it. In case it wasn’t clear, the he was me. I was the gay vampire. Me. ME!
But now I have morning classes at college. Morning classes! Now I’m a sad gay zombie. And what sort of future does a sad gay zombie have? What can a sad gay zombie offer the world? Nothing, I tell you. NOTHING.
You know what else? The teacher doesn’t even want to be here!
He’s like, “Man I wish this class could be later I’m so tired right now.”
And everyone’s like, “Me too.”
This clearly isn’t our most productive time of day. We talk about a couple poems and then leave**. You know how productive I was when I stayed up all night? I solved world hunger. Twice***.
Why do we wake up so early when no one wants to?
Why do people say good morning****?
Why am I awake?
These answers, and many others, will be provided someday. Somewhen. When I’m a little less tired and the Sun isn’t out.
*I sound like a vegan here, but I promise I’m not. I PROMISE. I’m just a comedian trying to make a couple jokes. Of course, I use the word “comedian” very loosely. I use the word “jokes” pretty loosely as well. But most of all I use the word “I’m” loosely, because does anyone truly know who they are on the inside? Can anyone define the mysteriousness of me?
** Though that might just be because I spend a lot of class time arguing that Emily Dickinson was kind of a little bit sad, WHICH I STILL FEEL SHOULD BE PRETTY OBVIOUS.
*** The first time I solved it but forgot to write the answer down, which was kind of awk. The second time I wrote my answer down, but when I woke up all I saw was doodles of two penguins making sweet sweet love.
**** It’s not.