I'm a heavy drinker.
I'm a heavy sleeper.
I'm a heavy dreamer.

I don't like mornings, I don't like children, I don't like jackhammers, I don't like bulldozers, and I don't like Mexicans. Well, at least not today. Not all Mexicans mind you, just the six outside slamming the scoop of the bulldozer into the concrete hard enough to make my @?!@ing house quiver like a thirteen year old girl rapt with her first climax.
At nine o'clock in the Goddamn morning.
And to think I was toasting the whole country with a six-pack of pilfered Corona last night.

I woke up at eight to a @?!@ing jackhammer right in front of my house. No big deal, I've already had my three hours of sleep. Assholes. I never even woke up all the way, I just figured World War III had finally begun, and I'd just try to sleep through the invasion. The jackhammer finally stops, or at least I manage to coerce the Sandman into taking me back for a few moments, and then, there it isBANG!with theBANG!bulldozerBANG!. I live on theBANG!fourth floor, and myBANG!wholeBANG!apartment isBANG!shaking. Of courseBANG!, I'm still dreamingBANG!, I think I'm a NavyBANG!Seal for the Czech RepublicBANG!, and I can solve this wholeBANG!thing with my laser-guidedBANG!rocket launcher with theBANG!Kung-Fu Grip?.

Do you have any idea how disconcerting it is to wake up and realize that you DON'T have a @?!@ing rocket-launcher? When there is a big yellow dinosaur ripping the world apart at the seams RIGHT OUTSIDE YOUR WINDOW?!?

And I can't be mad at the guys outside, they're just doing their job, they're making a living, but what I want to know is who the @?!@ signs work orders for these douchebags to break open the @?!@ing street at EIGHT IN THE GODDAMN MORNING?!? This is America for Christ's sake, and I didn't become an entertainer to wake up early. I have the right, as an American, to get hammered on the only social drug that we have deemed legal, and sleep until the sun goes down so that the light doesn't ever creep into my hangover.

FINE, I'm @?!@ing UP!
I'll go get get coffee.

Now here's another fine example of laws that don't make sense. I am not allowed to smoke in any indoor public space, including a BAR, okay fine. I'll deal with it. BUT!
Children are allowed almost anywhere. Like my coffee shop, my sanctuary, at 10am. @?!@ing toddlers, no less. Three of them, little @?!@ing princesses.
Yelling.
Screaming
Squealing.
Screeching.
Running around with their overpriced stuffed animals from Nordstrom.
While their parents just look on and smile. And laugh. While I try to figure out how to gag all three of them with two napkins and a Java Jacket?. Then the kicker. The tables in the coffee shop are cocktail tables, you know, the square kind, with one leg in the center, the kind that aren't all that stable, but most ADULTs have no problem with. One of the little yuppie larvae breaks from the pack, and heads for some treat on the table, unsupervised, but directly in front of me. I see her grab the corner of the table and start a pull-up, and the biggest, evillest shit-eating grin starts to blossom on my face. It only gets bigger and I watch the "tragedy" unfold in slow motion as the other groggy schmucks in the joint start to get up, like they're going to to do anything. She goes up and the table starts to teeter, the balance point has been reached, and little Sally just learned her first lesson in physics. The table goes over, throwing hot coffee everywhere, and smacking her right in the forehead as they both (larvae and table) hit the ground together. Sally starts screaming at the top of her lungs, Mom comes back in, hopefully embarrassed enough to rethink her decision to violate my temple/cafe with her moron spawn ever again. Everyone in the joint starts in with the "Is she OK?"s and mock, but limp, sympathy. I however, get a refill, and walk home whistling.

The workers are done, I can go back to embracing Mexicans and construction workers everywhere, I've got a head start on my day, and someone else is more miserable than I.

It's going to be a beautiful day.