One bourbon, one scotch, one beer .

I woke up at six today.

Intentionally.

I use my cell-phone’s alarm to wake me up. I usually set an alarm for seven forty five, and for seven fifty and for seven fifty five and for eight and for eight five, which is when I finally wake up.

The cell phone alarm is an obnoxious siren. Guaranteed to wake you up if you haven’t been dead for more than a week. (Still effective, but not covered by guarantee if you have been a corpse for more than a week. Its corpse reanimation properties extend only that far.).

Well, normally it is a siren. Except that today it wasn’t. Today it was quiet metallic voice telling me that it would hurt me if I did not get up immediately.

My cell phone scares me now.

Given my phone's gentle persuasion, (blood curdling threats) I dragged myself out off bed and stared owlishly at the phone for a few minutes. I fully expected it to turn into a Dalek, or the Terminator. The creepy liquid one from T2 and not everyone’s favorite governor.

I woke up at six today. Intentionally. Because, for some unfathomable reason I decided last night that waking up at six in the morning and running for an hour before getting in to work was a good idea.

Sadly, I am not a morning person. I consider eight thirty to be an unearthly hour. And I wasn’t aware that six in the morning existed. (I was aware that six in the morning in the night exists. That’s when you go to bed at six.)

Six in the morning is a strange time. The world looks disgustingly fresh and clean. Squirrels scamper about a-squirelling. Bird flutter about a-birding. (I love verbifying nouns). My cousin, who was at my place this last weekend, informed me that the bike path that runs by my apartment goes from Trenton to New Brunswick, or, if you prefer, from New Brunswick to Trenton. My response to this was, “There’s a bike path that runs by my apartment? Huh, fancy that.” I did know that there was a path, but I felt like being obnoxious. Coz’ I’m special that way. All a part of my boyish charm.

So, at six in the morning, squirrels were a-squirelling all over that path. I counted twelve of them hanging about, gossiping, bringing in the newspaper, and doing body shots. (Squirrel alcoholism is really, really sad. The next thing you know, the rodents will be wasted by mid-afternoon, slumped over a bar somewhere, pouring out their sorrows to the bartender, writing bad blank verse and strumming away half heartedly on a guitar. (Think Deperado without the guns, but with Salma Hayak. Because Salma Hayak improves anything. Salma Hayak doing body shots!) The bartender naturally will not understand them because most bartenders do not speak Squirrel. However, most bartenders do speak Rabbit and a rabbit interpreter might help… If in fact you are an inebriated squirrel who needs to pour his sorrows out to a bartender. And if you can find a rabbit prepared to do an honest days work. All they care about is rabbitting. (Now, that is a euphemism that works.))

Leaving behind the corrupt squirrel settlement, (Squirrem and Gammorel), I set off down the path. With a song in my heart, (That old Beatles classic, “Why the fuck am I not asleep at six.” It’s from the little known “Tribute to Rajneesh” album.) and a … um something else in my soul(Cheesecake?).

And strangely enough, I rather enjoyed myself. I probably will be making a habit of this. What? You expected me to rant and complain? Hey I liked it. I’m sorry, but I’m not a completely disagreeable person.

Yeah, so early morning runs and stuff. Good shit.