5:15 am. Gah. The Motherfucking Seagulls are squawking. (I have selected Motherfucking Seagulls from the available array of alarm sounds because of all the available configurations of bleep bleep, boop boop, aaaaaaaaanh aaaaaaaaaanh aaaaaaaaaanh, and buzzzzzz, the Motherfucking Seagulls are the sound least likely to cause me to reach out and throw the damned clock against the wall, or the closet [which is a shoji screen, which would be especially bad]).

5:16 am. Having cautiously rolled out of the very tall bed and managed not to break anything (it is a very tall bed), I step across the threshhold between the bedroom and the hallway in one awkward, wide, ginger stride. I do this because there is a Scat Mat at the threshhold, to keep Dax the Stray Clothing Eater out of the bedroom (he will devour anything made of stretchy material and anything with a crotch; yes, I could pick up my clothes and put them away like a grown-up, but no, it hasn't happened in the last 40 years, and it isn't going to start now.) Should my judgment of Scat Mat depth be off by even one inch, I will step on the mat, thereby self-administering a wake-up electrostatic shock. 

5:17 am. The shower is warming up.

5:19 am. The shower is still warming up. (The water heater's in the garage, 45 feet away).

5:25 am. I emerge from the shower, look in the mirror, swear off scotch on schoolnights for the twentieth time since New Year, administer Visine, then tiptoe back into the dark bedroom.

5:26 am. I gently place a pillow over Mr. Remedy's head (no, I am not planning to suffocate him...) and flip on the vanity light to cue today's performance of "I Have Nothing To Wear And Damn It, The Closet's Full, Too." 

5:27 am. Having selected a pair of black pants and something in the way of a stretchy top (because me and buttons have an agreement; I won't buy 'em, and they won't mortify me by popping open in front), I sit down to apply a layer or two of Dirt to my face.

5:32 am. Dax the WonderFiend has by now roused himself from slumber (it's still dark out--not even a sign of dawn yet) and plopped his skinny butt down outside the closed bedroom door. He is just now beginning to whine and whimper. Soon the whimpering will erupt into actual yips. Thus hurried, I try to apply mascara faster and barely avoid lancing my own left eyeball by mere millimeters. (I do not yell "FUCK!") I try to remove the black smudge near my eye with a tissue. It does not work. (I still do not yell "FUCK!")

5:33 am. Yip! Yip! Yip!

5:33.05 am. Defeated, I slink awkwardly over the Scat Mat and out of the dark bedroom, closing the door behind me, glaring at Dax The Devil Creature with my one good eye. Mr. Remedy has not awakened. Victory!

5:34 am. Finish re-washing face to get rid of the black smoodge which has metastasized over half my left cheek. Resolve to do the damned makeup from scratch once I get to work. (I have a drawerful for emergencies just like this.)

5:35 am. Go to office; sit down (briefly!) in front of home computer; turn on monitor; check email; check (briefly!) front page of OS. Dax The MegaNag settles into his bed and watches, reproachfully.

5:45 am. Whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine. Whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine. Whiiiiiiiiiiine. Shut up, animal. One more post, I swear.

^{Dax The All-Things-Evil}

5:55 am. YIP! Blink. Notice time. (I still do not yell "Fuck!") Close browser. Turn off monitor. Walk to kitchen. Dax The UberWeasel trots in a zigzag pattern just in front of me, trying to trip me. Today I do not succumb to his treachery. Wonder what he thinks he'd gain by tripping me. There is another scat mat between the kitchen and the living room. I step over this one more brazenly, insulated by shoes. Dax The HorrorHound flops to the floor, defeated, and assumes the Beggin'-S position.

5:56 am. Flip on kitchen lights (dawn is starting to lighten up the Western sky). Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeek! Wheeek Wheeeeek Wheeeeek wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek! Buttercup and Westley the guinea pigs (aw) are alerted to the presence of a Giant Terrifying Bipedal Creature that feeds them greens and tomatoes and cucumbers twice daily, but which they secretly suspect has come to kill them. They run away, out of arm's reach, still wheeeking, until I produce lettuce for them.

^{Not Buttercup or Westley.}

5:57 am. Refilling the pigs' water bottle.

5:58 am. Whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine. Whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.

5:59 am. YIP!

6:00 am. All other piggie chores (changing towels and food dole-age) accomplished, I retrieve one small doggie biscuit from the magic box in the magic room. At the door, behind the Scat Mat, I chirp "Good boy!" even though he isn't. I give him the damned thing he's been bugging me for all (morning? end-of-night?).

6:01 am. I am muttering under my breath and walking back through the house back into the office to retrieve the car keys to Mr. Remedy's minivan, which is parked squarely behind my Miata in the one-car-wide driveway.

6:03: am. Walking the damned van keys back to the office, having deposited the van on the street.

6:04 am. Whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.

6:05 am. Finally in my car, pulling out of the driveway. The sun will rise in another 15 minutes or so. First meeting of the day is at 6:30.

6:28 am. Pull into employee parking lot, thanking heavens that there's practically nobody on the road this early. Curse early meetings. Stumble into meeting. Feign wake-i-tude. Feign interest. Consider checking OS on BlackBerry. Try checking OS on BlackBerry. Decide OS interface was never meant for BlackBerry. Pity self.

7:31 am. Hit coffee cart for large nonfat extra-shot latte.

Really.

When do you breakfast people find the time to prepare an actual breakfast, let alone eat anything, first thing in the morning?

Disclaimer: Yes, I know breakfast is the Most Important Meal Of The Day(TM), but I haven't gotten up one minute earlier than I needed to for 37 years, since the day I realized that school starts EARLY and all things considered, I'd rather sleep than eat.