The general idea of this thread is to give a brief overview of an average morning in your undoubtedly extraordinary life. While it may seem like a lot of effort to go through, I figured some of you might also be the kind of sad ****s that enjoys writing things like this. Your account may or may not be entirely fictional.
This is the fastest I move all morning. My arm shoots out from the duvet, groping wildly like a blindfolded Kobe Bryant for my phone. Snooze. Within half an hour I stand on the floor of my bedroom. I put on a pair of baggy sweatpants, a sock or whatever else I can find within two feet of me on my floor.
I am dragged down the stairs from my attic room by my drooping eyelids. I stop at the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. This is in the spirit of morning because now not only am I horribly tired, but I have a cold face. I continue on my pilgrimage to the kitchen, stopping again at my harem to do a line of blow the length of a hooker's spine. God I love mornings.
3 seconds later I have cobbled together a bowl of Weet-a-bix with cold milk. While I am no longer particularly hungry, I quickly demolish this, bend my spoon in half and throw the bowl over my shoulder. I storm off to the utility room like a ****ing gorilla to brush my teeth with sandpaper because I am ****ing hard. I rush up the stairs 3 at a time, back up to my room. I don my sky blue shirt, white blazer with tailcoats and white trousers, stick on my sky blue satin winkle pickers and slide the rings on to my fingers. Laughing maniacally I leap from the window in to my enlarged Escalade, spark up two cigars and shout at my chauffeur Deandre to drive me round my city, *****.
Now you say yours.
This is the fastest I move all morning. My arm shoots out from the duvet, groping wildly like a blindfolded Kobe Bryant for my phone. Snooze. Within half an hour I stand on the floor of my bedroom. I put on a pair of baggy sweatpants, a sock or whatever else I can find within two feet of me on my floor.
I am dragged down the stairs from my attic room by my drooping eyelids. I stop at the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. This is in the spirit of morning because now not only am I horribly tired, but I have a cold face. I continue on my pilgrimage to the kitchen, stopping again at my harem to do a line of blow the length of a hooker's spine. God I love mornings.
3 seconds later I have cobbled together a bowl of Weet-a-bix with cold milk. While I am no longer particularly hungry, I quickly demolish this, bend my spoon in half and throw the bowl over my shoulder. I storm off to the utility room like a ****ing gorilla to brush my teeth with sandpaper because I am ****ing hard. I rush up the stairs 3 at a time, back up to my room. I don my sky blue shirt, white blazer with tailcoats and white trousers, stick on my sky blue satin winkle pickers and slide the rings on to my fingers. Laughing maniacally I leap from the window in to my enlarged Escalade, spark up two cigars and shout at my chauffeur Deandre to drive me round my city, *****.
Now you say yours.
