Nano Rhino

November.

No shaving of facial hair. Easy. I never do that anyway.

No consumption of added sugar. Also easy for me, but not so easy for the girl whom I entered this pact with—she works at a bakery around savory, sugary pastries of delight. This was a more agreeable challenge for her, though, as bakeries aren't really the environment for bearded ladies.

No eating, sleeping, sleeping, or fun— only NaNoWriMo. This I failed at, partly because it always sounds to me like Nano Rhino, so I fail to take it seriously, but also because I enjoy eating, sleeping, and fun so much more.



It's November 1st, 10:51 PM. I sit down at my writing desk with the intention of writing. This doesn't happen at all. What happens instead is this:



My sideburns grow a little and I climb into bed.



Conditions are changing, so subtly and gradually that I don't notice until it's too late. It's suddenly now becoming very warm. Colors are rapidly growing red in hue, the light more intense.



My heart races.

My face puckers.

I'm suddenly awake.

Thank God.

The world is not, in fact, exploding. Yet.



With only my left pair of eyelids parted, I scan my surroundings for one second and close them again tightly. I stretch and take in my first conscious breath of the day.



In that one second, I see that it is indeed morning. The dew on the grass is evaporating. Fair-weather cumulus clouds are approaching from the southwest. The ficus on the window sill is photosynthesizing. My girlfriend is smiling "good morning" at me from within the picture frame on the opposite wall, even though she's clearly standing in late afternoon light that is 3 years old. My bed sheets are a zig-zag mess of valleys and mountains.

The clock next to me reads 6:13 AM.



One second exposes far too much information to my sensitive night-time eyes. (It's all a bit heavy to digest, especially at such an early hour before breakfast. Some people refer to this hour as "the ass crack of dawn," which is almost as unsettling to think about before breakfast as the thousands of dust mites that are eating your skin for breakfast at that very same crack.) They're small, glossy, and roundish—a bit like billiard balls, actually—with a crescent moon and star motif on each. They're dry and itchy, so I take them out. By "them," I mean, of course, my night-time eyes, not the dust mites. That comes later.



My day-time eyes, with yellow suns on them, slide in smoothly and comfortably.

My face relaxes. Ahh, much better.

Now to urinate.

It's 6:15 AM.



Breakfast. Pour the stuff in the bowl, scoop it up with the spoon.

Newspaper. A thingly thing happens to a somebody.

Hygiene. Wash it. Rinse it. Wipe it. Comb it.



I start my car and drive.

Suddenly I am at work.

It's 7:58 AM.

"Good morning!"

Good morning.

"Today is an ABC day, so you have to do ABC."

I know. Thanks.

"That means no DEF."

I know.

"It's almost 8 o'clock. You know what that means."

I KNOW. G2G!



I punch in.

The time clock reads precisely 8:00 AM.



Welcome to Lorem Ipsum! May I interest you in some ABC today?

Yes, ma'am, we are open 24/7.

WTF is on aisle 666.



4:24 PM. My day-time eyes are growing tired.

"Excuse me. I need to speak with you."

Okay.

"So. How did AM+PM go?"

Every thing is 100%.

"ABC done?"

Yes.

"What about XYZ?"

I'm not trained for XYZ, but I was able to do a bit of BRB.

"Listen. This isn't working. We'd rather you could do XYZ without having to be asked. You could be a BFF by now. You've had time for training."

I was occupied with BRB.

"...Which was not authorized. You should have asked first! Also, you were 2 minutes late this morning."

I started at 8:00!

"Shifts start 2 minutes before the hour. This prevents tardiness. You should have asked the RTFM!"

How should I have known? You saw me at 7:58! Why didn't you tell me?

"I did tell you! Anyway, I'll see you at 8 again tomorrow... for DEF."

But don't you mean 7:58?

"No, I said DEF! Now stop asking so many questions!"



I get into my Pontiac GTFO.

The stereo reads 4:30 PM.

Afternoon traffic. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. White lines. Yellow lines.



I'm home again.

5:00 PM.

Walk the dog. Throw the stick, scoop the poop.

Make dinner. Throw the switch, scoop the soup.

Wash the dishes.



I call my girlfriend.

How are you?

So you're the somebody the thing happened to.

Wow...

I had a thing happen to me once. It was awful.

The call is mysteriously dropped at 7:56 PM.



I turn on the computer.

It's suddenly 10:51 PM. Again.

I turn off the computer.

Make the bed.

Get in the bed.

Day-time eyes come out.

Night-time eyes go in.

Lights turn off.



Suddenly, I have a strong urge to have make love with my girlfriend at 7:58 AM as the world is exploding. I begin imagining it from the dust mites' point-of-view and am gradually turned off my the concept.

The dust mites suggest that, indeed, this is a terrible idea and that I should sleep instead, but they express appreciation for being acknowledged.

I am now very itchy, and a washing of the bed linens feels long overdue.

The photographic girlfriend and the ficus plant on the window seem to agree.



Following the great quakes, floods, and parasitic cleansing, population of the vast Mattress is once again restored to, simply, me.



9 hours later, I awaken again.

Reaching for my day-time eyes, I fumble over the contents of the nearby table and objects my fingers are touching firmly suddenly fall away as a terrible racket sounds from the floor.

There, with eyelids barely parted for one second, my night-time time eyes are able to identify the following things:



Small, glossy, roundish pieces of broken eye balls.

Dust mites scurrying everywhere.

A pair of sunglasses.

A mobile phone, displaying a text message from my girlfriend that reads: "So who's this girl from the bakery?"

Various scattered Scrabble pieces (R, A, C, and P).

The clock, on its side, displaying 8:00 AM.



The dog, excited by the noise, is now barking much much louder than what is appropriate for two hours past the ass crack of dawn.

After three seconds, I'm able to mentally arrange the Scrabble letters into a word that very accurately describes how all of this feels.

I put on the sunglasses.



It's going to be an interesting day. I'm going to need a powered-sugared doughnut.