Morning thoughts and windows

I fell asleep last night with a bottle in my hand, absently watching a squirrel desperately scuttle away from a starving 'coon. Alternating frantically from damp blades of grass to frail tree branches in a meager escape from certain death. Acting purely on instinct for it's own insignificant survival. I wondered drunkenly if it would escape, unintentionally rooting for the underdog. Of course, in the end, it's efforts were in vain and utterly futile.
I really wasn't interested in the consequences of it's failed attempt, so I closed my eyes and must have nodded off at some point.

Four hours of sleep later and I'm wide awake, staring aimlessly towards the lazy faint glow of cheap red numbers that read 5:27. Watching as the minutes tick by like years, sneering at me with blood shot eyes as I silently plead with my myself; wishing I could just close my eye lids and fall drearily into the nightmares I've grown accustomed to. If only it were that simple.

By now, dawn has made it's dreaded presence abundantly clear. Streaming faint shades of tangerine laced with lilac airbrushed strokes at 6:53. So I lie here, igniting my last cigarette, my chest clenched from a nauseating enflamed throat. Almost as if my own body resents me for the strenuous struggles I often inflict upon it. Morning after morning. Day after day. Night after night.

I drag myself from bed only to return with a cup of coffee. Almost completely black, with the exception of a pinch of sugar. It taste's overwhelmingly bitter but I like it, because quite frankly, I enjoy the fact I don't. I guess that one statement explains alot about me when it really comes down to it. I contemplate that thought as I gaze languidly at the chipped away, dingy window frame. Not exactly piercing through it; not exactly looking at it. Just observing from my periphery. I could do this for hours, absolutely nothing.

Not completely uncommon I presume, considering the fact I have a.d.d. Although I do hate the thought of acknowledging a fickle label 'diagnosed' to me just because I happen to use my brain unlike most of the immediate society in unmotivated America. The irony in that being I'm most definitely the laziest bitch I know of.

Alas, the longer I sit here bitching and moaning (and writing), fleeting time brushes by, much like that of the tumbleweeds I often watch drift along the cracked roads from those long drives I adore on my journeys to visit my grandmother; like the one I saw just two days ago to be with her in this time of mourning our lives have force fed us on dish of cold-blooded karma.

I'm like that squirrel in many ways, provoking the twists and predatory turns of fate. Licking the wounds of my tail in an open clearing, painfully obvious for the dangers in the moonlit night. Providing the spoon fed kill of my own destruction. Yet, with my morning rituals now completed, I'll be impatiently waiting for noon so I can drink towards my own demise once again, pissing in the face of a clarity I ignorantly choose to ignore.