I'm seriously trippin' right now, because there is a strong chance I forgot to turn off Clocky's alarm and I really wanna go home and make sure that bitch ass alarm clock isn't rolling out around the apartment.
I mean, we know I have issues with like, not sleeping. I am awesome at sleeping. Anything that involves suspended motor functions and unconscious creative output is like cake for me, and you know. Fuck yeah, cake.
Being awake is so hard. You have to be clean when you talk to people or else they make scrutinous little snipes, since everyone's a private dick, like "oh, are we too good for a shower?" or "I can smell you were drinking last night" or "go put on a bra, this isn't Wal-Mart."
So I need an alarm clock that'll get all up in my business so I can be a daisy-fresh daywalker, and Clocky is loud enough to get me out of bed. Sometimes. Usually. After awhile. Basically Clocky is an annoying little bastard, and if that alarm has been going off for hours...shit.
If Clocky's been bustin 'round the a.pt. like a wheeled schizophrenic banshee all frakking day, then right about an hour ago I'm sure the neighbors chopped down the door with a fire-axe and crushed him to bits in an alarm-fueled axe-rage, smashing family portraits and snatching my Band of Brothers DVD's because they are laying out on the table right now in plain sight omgwtf, and and then Oscar The One-Eyed Cat prolly got loose into the world (I started calling him Colonel Tigh) and is about to get grilled by crack-addled hipsters who don't have jobs because they need to focus on their "music" and eat cat-steak sandwiches for lunch. Cat-steak with hedonistic hipstery condiments and toppings, like roasted-red-pepper-and-guava-chutney-with-gluten-free-brie-purple-Japanese-sweet-potato-truffles.