I want to find the inventor of alarm clocks.  I want to find him, and I want to hurt him.

At some point, you have probably wanted to as well.  Maybe it was the morning after a long, arduous night of drinking.  Maybe it was after an amazing dream was interrupted by that horrid blast of alarm noise.  For me, it’s a pretty constant grudge.

Waking up is the worst part of many a day; that painful realization that your rest is over.  Snuggled up in the loving arms of your

Oh, the horror

favorite blanket, the ring of your daily alarm can be like ants at a picnic.  Nobody likes ants at a picnic.  Nobody likes to wake up.

It’s a cruel twist of fate, then, how waking up is essential.  It’s the yang to the yin of sleeping.  One is so wonderful; so refreshing.  The other is the wicked work of all that is evil.  Yet without one, you cannot have the other.  Unless you’re dead, of course.

There are some mornings, though, where I am quite jealous of the dead.  The mornings when it would take a bulldozer to get me out of bed.  On these mornings, the alarm clock seems even more cruel than usual.  It rings louder, or at least it seems to.  And that sound.  The inventor of alarm clocks probably designed it as a torture device for barbaric interrogations.  The traditional sound of an alarm clock is enough to make the most heavenly slumber come to a crashing halt.  It’s worse than nails on a chalkboard, and it ruins a myriad of days before they even start.

As a personal form of protest, I am going to stop sleeping.  A day without sleep is a day without the pain of waking up.  Twenty days without sleep would be twenty pretty great days in my book.  Sure, by day three I may not be able to drive a car, let alone function properly.  But it’ll sure beat waking up.

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