Oh Mickey, You’re So Fine

My alarm clock is dying. Like any death, it’s a sad one, but I like to think we had a good run. It was always there when I needed it, and I never really smacked it too hard. Which is why it's surprising that in its final throes of existence, my alarm’s decided to lash back at me and the world in a whole assortment of interesting ways: not going off when I tell it to; waking me up whenever the hell it feels like it; and (my personal favorite) waking me up at my normal time but telling me it’s really three hours later. If anything, it’s made me realize there are probably one million different ways to have a heart attack while you’re still half-asleep.

Out of respect for the departed (and the power of inertia), I decided to wait a bit before buying a new alarm. So for the past few days I’ve been relying on my cell phone’s alarm function to get me out of bed. Convenient, sure. But one of the unexpected side effects has been testing my sanity.

As an alarm, I selected Fashion, or as my phone labels it, fashion.mid. I picked Fashion because it's melodically intense, while still gratingly midi enough to force me out of bed. In retrospect though, I think I might’ve been better off just hiring some thug to stab me in the side of the head every morning.

You know when you wake up to a song, it’s not uncommon to have it in your head for the rest of the day? Well now, whenever my mind’s at some sort of resting state, I find myself humming the melody of Fashion. And it’s been digging into my subconscious all week, chipping away at my soul, piece by piece.

R.I. Opposite Of P., alarm clock. Hope you’re enjoying this.