you wake up with the phone ringing like hell. you reluctantly grab it and try your best to sound hours awake, purr hard on the 'h' of your hello so the creature on the other end doesn't hear ello instead, and stifle a yawn that's on hold for ages. the creature, of all creatures to call you on a friday morning when your throat's all sore and your nostrils are clogged, fits the very illustration your mum warned you of. you act as if you're thinking of an answer, something witty like this is elvis presley. i'm out to record an album today so just leave a message after the beat. *tut* or fuckoff, manwhore. for the nth time you've got the wrong number. however, your neurons jam on the way to your mouth, just like they always do when you run out of wit and nerve. you resort to lazily slamming the handset onto its cradle. you pause, expecting to hear the damn thing ring again. luckily, it doesn't. you try to breath through your clogged nostrils, close your eyes and recall that beautiful dream you were having before the useless git called. what was it again? were you running through fields, or eating strawberries drowned in sweet milk, or playing on plastic laptops, or slapping carlos for being a serial gay basher? you get pissed. you can't remember a single detail, and all that comes back to you is the futile seduction of light beer and a glass of it going down your intestines --- alcohol to wash off the dirt brought to you by three sticks of isaw and tengang baboy. you heave a sigh and call for Sausage. your pet comes running, she jumps onto the bed and starts licking you all over. your nostrils are still clogged but somehow, you feel better.

(sigh)

another day on planet earth. good morning, then.