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Tuesday, Apr. 2, 2002 - 4:55 am
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

I am awake, and I know I'll be staying awake. It's not my morning to bake, but I am awake, regardless. A slave to the tyranny of my Circadian rhythm. Bedtime was midnight, last night, and it's my partner's turn to do the baking and drive the Cookie Mobile this morning. If I want to, I can sleep 'til eight. But my internal clock, steadfast, heedless, obdurate, rouses me at 4:25 every morning, give or take 180 seconds.

When I kicked loose from the covers and rolled out of bed, the Fiend stirred, and murmured, and dozed, as he usually does every morning when he sleeps with me. The Moondoggie, already awake and waiting, snuffled my knees, my hands, my cock, and asked to go out. I let him out through the French doors in the dining room, as I usually do every morning. He raced across the patio to the lawn, stopped, and pissed, as he usually does every morning. And then, as usual, I took a piss too. Not on the back lawn, of course.

That brings us to the end of our usual standard morning program. After that, we get optional.

I went back to the bed to see if the Fiend wanted coffee. Or tea. Or cocoa. Or Cheerios. Or Fellatios. But he was opting for sleep. I decided for coffee. I crushed the hollow head of my Easter bunny and dropped a couple of chunks into the coffee. Not a great taste sensation. I don't recommend it. But I'm drinking it anyway. I took my coffee back to bed with me, with a pen and a quad pad. And so here I am. Sitting cross-legged in bed, with my writing desk across my knees, my coffee making a ring on an old paperback book on the bedside table. The book has been a coaster many times, its cover is a rippled moire of ring-shaped stains. It's Clarence Darrow's autobiography. Have I read it? I don't know. Why would I read that?

(I prefer quad pads to legal pads. You have the option of writing in either portrait or landscape mode, and sudden urges to draft scale drawings can be gratified instantly.)

(My writing desk is a pine board, a leftover from some years-ago carpentry. There is a crude crayon drawing on one side, a child's drawing, the child was Jacob, the four-year-old son of my former lover. Jacob is five now, soon to be six. The drawing is an indeterminate creature with many legs, antennae, and a smile. Could be a spider or a lady bug. The number of legs, seven, is no clue. Maybe it's a gimpy octopodous alien.)

The Fiend woke again when I climbed back into bed. He waited, drowsing, while I shifted my pillows into a better lumbar support, then he slipped his hand under my thigh and grasped my balls.

Uh, do you want to play with me, I asked.

Uh-uh, he replied in the negative, fondling fondly. He snuggled against my hip and promptly fell asleep again, my bocce in his clutch. Lately, this is his preferred way to nod off: with his hand wrapped around my goolies. I think he is beginning to regard my C&B as his teddy bear.

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

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