I woke up, and first I was warm. Super snuggy nice-warm, sleepy-sleepy, everything-is-perfect warm. And then, something terrible was happening in my ears, a hurty noise trying to make me move. So I opened my eyes a little bit. They were all gluey from night-crusties so I scritched them out of my eye corners. But then my eyes got tired again so I closed them.
But then more ouchy shrieking. Like mad birdies, like the yicky black birdies that go “craaaaaw!!” at you. Get up, get up, get up, the noise said. But in horrible bird voices that wibbled up and down and made my head feel all pricky. Get up! Caaaaw! Get up! Screeeech! Graaaa!
Then, “Erica, your eggos are getting cold! If you don’t get out of bed I’m turning the music up!” And I could smell the yummy daddy-coffee smell, so I tried to get ready, but somebody turned on extra heavy gravity. I got out of bed, went to the dresser, and promptly fell asleep on the carpet.
I have always been a wretched thing in the morning. My dad had to come upstairs, force my sleep-weakened limbs into clothing, and drag me down to the kitchen, where I’d beg him to turn off the music, beg him like I was begging for my life. “Please, Daddy, please, Daddy, pleeeeaase Daddy!” I wailed, in time with the cellos.
Mozart in the morning was my enemy. The tremendous dynamics aggravated me. The quick, virtuoso violins were like fork-stabs in my ears. The obnoxious, trilling melodies, the presence of such horrid rhythm so early in the morning. I didn’t understand it. Couldn’t do anything. Dad would have to stuff waffles down my gullet and coax me through the garage door and into the car with whiffs of fresh coffee grounds, by which point I was supremely disgruntled, my little-girl feathers ruffled.
“No more Mozar, kay Daddy?” I admonished, as he reached for the garage door opener.
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