My little old copper alarm clock rests on my desk tick tocking away each inevitable second of the day, only to shake, rattle, and ring me to wake every morning.
As I lay there in bed, half dead, sometimes wishing maybe that I was, achy and tired stretching and scratching like a jungle cat, I feel the morning crawl into my house. The smell of fresh coffee creeps under my door my sister's radio blares the newest teen sensation and drowns out the morning news light seeps in through cracks in my curtains and the cold of a winter night forces me to burrow back under a warm heap of scratchy old quilts as I tell myself, "five more minutes and I'll get up." I contort myself into a comfortable knotty little ball under the heavy coverings and bury my head into the broken-in old feather pillow searching for warmth and what remains of my last dream. BRRRIIIIAAAAAANNNNGGGGG, ka-tank, tank, ka-tunk. My brain is electrocuted to life by the cantankerous little alarm cl...