Toast is burnt.
Burnt badly enough to set the fire alarm in my tiny apartment off. The shower curtain is ripped and the curtain rod is bent, all because of my sudden panic. Bent rod and ripped shower curtain not enough, I slip on the soaked tile floor and bang my forehead on the useless, storage free, porcelain sink during my hasty shower exit. The large lump on my forehead is now blooming into a throbbing, blue bruise. 10 minutes of fruitless effort have proven that no amount of makeup will hide it.
Breakfast is a blackened write off unless I want to chance the suspiciously chunky yogourt in fridge.
No amount of fanning will silence the deafeningly shrill beeps. My eardrums are vibrating.
Guy from apartment 614 now knows what my rear end looks like, after Mrs. Linwood's cat accompanied her to knock on my door for the eighth time to tell me the obvious. My fire alarm is blaring. Yes, I am aware. No, nothing is on fire. Yes, I've tried fanning it. Her demon possessed ball of fur jumps out of her arms, straight through my legs and into my apartment. Whilst stooping down to try to scoop him up with one hand, and keep my towel in place with the other- Mr. Apartment 614 got a hell of a morning show. And no, thank you, I don't need your help or your smug little smile.
My life is in absolute ruins and it's not even 10 am, all because I left my phone behind. No alarm to wake me from my tequila induced coma, no ability to call or text my work colleague to ask him to cover for me now that I'm running horrendously late for what was likely to be the most important meeting of my career, with our firm's most important clients. In all likely hood, this will mean I will be out of a job by the day's end.
Never mind explaining to the soon- to-be ex-boyfriend about the careless, alcohol inspired selfies at our local bar hangout, if ever my phone does surface. Even if our fight justified my leaving his place in a rage, I'm not sure I'm persuasive enough to talk my way out of the picture evidence that might surface from our fourth round of tequila shots.
Oh but I can't suppress the smile on my face. Mr. Green-eyed-golden-haired-don't care if you slurp the milk out of your cereal bowl- or hate my mother - one night stand. You might have just been worth it.
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