Always the same routine. 

Wake up in darkness. Lie still and estimate the time. Think it through. The goal is 3:30. It’s never later, usually earlier. Once I decide what I believe the time to be, I nudge the bedside table. Movement activates the Apple watch on its charger. 12:30? 1:30? Shit! Try to go back to sleep. 3:00 or 3:26? Excellent! Time to get up!

But first, grab the iPhone and scroll for 20 minutes. Facebook of course because I’m over 40. (Young people know that Facebook is Geezerville and mostly avoid its uncoolness.) Instagram for the girl’s latest status. Messages to see if there was family chatter after I conked out last night. CBS, NPR, USA Today, BBC, even FOX fake news, just to see if they all agree among themselves that the only things  worth talking about are Trump and Coronavirus.

 Both of them are actually killing people, and not just on Fifth Avenue.

I check my e-mail, although it’s mostly a bunch of emotional drama predicting the end of the world if the other guys steal this election or that and how I’m such a great guy for making the mistake of giving their team a few bucks several months ago and is there any way I can do that again right now because the invading hoards of evil are about to overrun us all.

So much begging and hair-pulling should be accompanied by equally dramatic music. Think “Lone Ranger” chasing bad guys.

My last virtual bus stop before actually getting up, is our bank account. A masochist, I seem to revel in the Ground Hog Day depression of seeing that same $743. is sitting there, day after day, unaccompanied by my overdue and much heralded “Stimulus check”. I often wonder who’s receiving those things. None of my friends have, certainly not me.

“Trump’s a lying bastard and the whole government is fucked right now.” I tell myself. It’s both an accusation and an affirmation.

That silent soliloquy makes me smile. I know who the bad guys are, and I’m not one of them. OK, good. More importantly, there is Organic Columbian coffee waiting for me to brew a cup. My world is great, I tell myself, glad to be autonomous under my own little rock.

But I can take one last disappointment before coffee so I tap the bank icon and watch the face recognition screen examine my nose.

The checking account displays itself, but at first, the numbers don’t make sense. I’m in the wrong house or something. No, look at the total…that’s way too much…because…because…my stimulus check! Unbelievable! There really is a tooth fairy!

(I force myself to check the urge to scream “You fuckwads are giving me back my own money and act like you’re doing me some huge favor, like I’m your charity, worthy of your pity. Well, fuck you, you work for me and I will vote your crooked ass out of office at every opportunity I get.”)

OK, silent rant over, I feel better, and… I’m rich! I love Donald Trump! It’s all his doing! Now I’ll vote for him forever!

Sorry, got a touch of gold fever and lost my mind there for a second!

Anyway, on to more important matters…how to spend our newfound wealth?

I finally got up and went out to the great room where Carla was half-buried under her weighted blanket. She was down the rabbit hole with her laptop, bird-nest hair and hyper focused on her pet passions:

1)      Native American issues

2)       palatial houses for sale around the world that have fallen into disrepair, now selling for peanuts. (forget about the million or two you would need to renovate, this is not about practicality, it’s about dreaming)

3)      All things Carl Jung

Demanding that she free herself and be present for a moment, I tell her the good news and offer options as to how to spend all that windfall moola.

“We’ve got lots of bills that I’ve been putting at arm’s length.” I point out. “But we’ve been locked in so long that I think we should get out and celebrate!”

“Let’s go to The Blue Hen for breakfast! We could take Chica to the dog park afterward! Maybe stop by Vystar and ask about that safety deposit box. Want to go see a movie this afternoon? What if we drive down to Hulls and sit at the bar? It’s twofer Tuesday! Since you don’t drink, we can both order Moscow Mules so I’ll get four!

Or we could do something really crazy.

“Let’s drive down to Disneyworld!”

Carla looked at me dead on and took a pin to my fantasy balloon: “They’re all closed, and you quit drinking” she stated flatly, pulling down her miner light and going back underground into her internet caves.

Well shit, I thought, I may have to pay bills…unless…I go to Amazon Prime and save a ton of money on things priced so low that I can’t afford not to buy them!

Fuck the bills!  Donald said he may send us another check next month anyway.

I love that man!

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(Satire, folks. I hate that man!)