The alarm emanates from the plastic reproduction of a retro resin clock that I got in a catalog for fifty bucks on a whim–which I now regret. The alarm barely does its job most of the time; I’m a very sound sleeper and usually only wake up once a REM cycle has completed (or is nearing completion, at least). This particular late-morning, I was first roused by a bone-rattling cough coming from my roommate’s end of the apartment, but chose not to do anything about my waking state and rolled over for some more rest. Well, I was pretty much wide awake but would rather lie down than attempt any kind of activity, as is my wont (being an American and living like royalty on my days off from work). Now I’m lying stationary and regretting that I didn’t get groceries last night when I was actually up and at ’em. If I don’t do something about that soon, I could literally starve to death. The longer I wait in my bed, the weaker I’ll get, until I’ve reached the point of no return and my sick roommate will have to take notice of my extended lack of rustling about the apartment. He doesn’t typically exhibit signs of good samaritanism, but maybe if I attempt broadcasting my distress telepathically he’ll pick up on my misery. I know what you’re thinking, why not just yell for help? There’s no way I’m going to wrap myself up in such a faux pas, whining about every little threat to my existence. No, I’ll take my self-imposed punishment like a man.


Author: Aidan Badinger

Wharved.com I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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