Mornings Are a Joke I Keep Telling Myself

This morning, I thought I’d power through the rut.
Almost made it out of the bedroom. Almost.

But the walker squeaked.
And my cousin in the next room — whose lifelong mission is to always be up — gets triggered like a tripwire.
(He once snored and woke up at the same time. I’m still recovering.)

So now, my hide-and-seek with the walker has become his personal alarm.
Doesn’t matter whether he’s up or not. The ritual is hardcoded.

 

The Coffee Is Just… Symbolic Now

Coffee? Ha.
No mug anymore. Just my Guinness camping cup from that Ireland trip — the one where I was diplomatically evicted from my ex-fiancé’s house after washing two hundred teacups every four hours like I was prepping for a royal tea marathon.

The cup is peeling now.
Even it’s given up on me.
Honestly? Respect.

 

The Morning Drill No One Asked For

Despite last evening’s grocery inspection — list made, fridge checked, mental checklist complete — the cook waits until 9 AM to remember what’s missing.
It’s like her lips seal shut the second she finishes cooking the previous day.

Drama is an ingredient, apparently.

I sneak back into the bedroom, ghost-mode.
Try to meditate.
Lasts maybe five seconds.

Then I hear it:

“Onions.”

Followed by the message:

“We need to buy onions.”

And there goes my spiritual realignment.

 

Sweet Potatoes and Philosophical Boils

Then comes the question:

“Half boiled or full boiled?”

It’s sweet potato, duh.
Full boil.
I should’ve said “over easy” just to keep things unpredictable.

And Now, The Arrival of BS

Right as I type this… ding dong.
Third doorbell of the morning.

It’s BS.
Short for BhagyaShree.
Also short for… the general vibe she brings.

I called her name twice earlier. She acknowledged. Then vanished like a magician who’s over it.
Now she’s back, entering like she owns time. And honestly?

I love that spirit.
Makes me wonder why I don’t have it.

Damn.