[ RF ] Today you skipped work .

4:57 a.m. 
 If I don ’ t get up and shower now, I ’ m going to be late for work. 
 I don ’ t want to go to work, but continuing to lie here and watch my alarm clock judge me would be slightly more unbearable than getting up. 
 
 4:58 a.m. 
 I could just not shower. 
 
 4:59 a.m. 
 I hate everything about sitting up, so I am lying back down. If I put yesterday ’ s jeans over my face, the alarm clock won ’ t be able to see me and I won ’ t be able to hear its screeching so clearly. 
 
 5:01 a.m. 
 I told my girlfriend I wanted this job. 
 I told her I ’ d finally feel free if I moved into an apartment in loneliness ’ asscrack and stared down the belligerent sunrise each meaningless morning. 
 Those might not have been my exact words. 
 
 5:07 a.m. 
 I have three minutes to leave before I can no longer be on time for work. 
 So far today, I successfully amputated the cord from the audible putrescence I call my alarm clock. I didn ’ t mean to break it, but it ’ s broken now and it serves me right for not getting out of bed. 
 Breaking my stuff doesn ’ t count towards being dressed for work. 
 
 5:08 a.m. 
 Two minutes until I have to leave. 
 My hair is greasy. I can ’ t go in without a shower. 
 
 5:09 a.m. 
 Another minute passed. All I did was run my hands through my hair. 
 Since I last showered, my head made enough oil to fill a gulf and start a crisis, so I guess part of me is still productive. 
 
 5:11 a.m. 
 I guess I won ’ t be on time for work. 
 I stumbled to the kitchen and now I ’ m just staring at a different clock than before. This one ’ s tick-tock feels like tsk-tsk, and I ’ m still not even dressed. 
 
 5:13 a.m. 
 This wretched kitchen clock is distracting me from my breakfast. 
 I ate the last of the bread last night, so all I have to eat my peanut butter off of now is a spoon. 
 But I think I used to like eating spoonfuls of peanut butter. 
 I think I used to like things. 
 
 5:17 a.m. 
 I could just not go in today. 
 It ’ s not like they ’ ll notice that I ’ m gone. 
 I could crawl back into bed and sleep for the whole day; I don ’ t have an alarm clock to wake me up anymore. 
 
 5:21 a.m. 
 I ’ m trying to get comfortable in bed, but this stupid clock makes me feel like a murderer. 
 
 5:22 a.m. 
 I can ’ t just stay here and look at the corpse of my alarm clock all day. 
 
 5:23 a.m. 
 I ’ m a clock murderer. 
 It ’ s dead and it ’ s still judging me. 
 
 5:27 a.m. 
 I put the clock ’ s remains in the trash can in the kitchen so I won ’ t have to keep looking at them. 
 
 5:42 a.m. 
 I can ’ t sleep. I feel like I owe the clock a proper burial. I pulled it out of the trash and I'm going to go bury it. 
 
 5:56 a.m. 
 I got all the way to the park to bury the clock before I realized I didn ’ t have a shovel. The ground was too cold for me to dig a hole with my hands, either, and I really should n't owe anything to a clock. 
 
 Not even to a clock I murdered. 
 
 5:58 a.m. 
 I threw the clock in that old fountain with the duck statue on top. It always terrified me as a kid, and now the thing that terrifies me as an adult can rest in its disgusting pool of dirty water. 

