Excuses

Yeah, I know I’m late again. It’s not as if I can’t wake up on time. I have three alarm clocks, you know. My mother knocks at my door each morning. I have no trouble getting up, which I think is the primary source of my problem. Let me explain.

My alarm clock is the siren of a fire truck. I wake up, drag myself out of bed. As I open my bedroom door, there’s the burgundy sofa, with new silk covers and

My alarm clock is the siren of a fire truck. I wake up, drag myself out of bed. The sand feels warm under my feet, pebbles wet from the ebbing tide. The sky is deep blue with purple and orange hues at the horizon. The sun kisses my face, I’m late for work. I cover my sequined two-piece swim suit with white fur coat, put black fish net stockings on and slip into a Happy Feet bakya. As I leave Batanes

I wake up. I’m on a wet cement floor that smells like fish. I get up and run, trying to evade the man with a butcher’s knife. The wet market is crowded with TV cameras and rallyists; Mar Roxas is inspecting fresh meat and refuses to help me. I scream but the voices of market vendors drown me out. I fly like Jackie Chan from stall to stall, ceiling to walls, and seize a police motorcycle in the hope of escaping the butcher’s knife.

“Mag bra ka!” screams the butcher with a knife. I look down and I’m wearing an oversized white t-shirt with a Red Cross logo, braless.

Scared, I squeeze the throttle and the motorbike zooms towards MoA, but soon the butcher is riding a horse like a jockey. I am driving at maximum speed but the butcher’s horse seems to be bobbing up and down beside me, almost catching up. I switch the sirens on and close my eyes hoping I can scare the horse. Then

I wake up to a soft-lighted room, it’s warm and cozy, New Age music at the background. “Swedish massage?” Cesar Montano with hairy chest and a British accent asks, looking lean and tanned in his Egyptian loin cloth. I blink my eyes and go back to sleep. This is too weird, even for me, and besides, I have to get to

I wake up in a bowl of oatmeal with sago. It feels rather nice, warm but a little slimy. I try to swim out of the bowl, but as anyone who has wakened up in a bowl of oatmeal with sago knows, this is easier said than done. After a while, I decide to eat my way out instead. Wishing that the milk is non-fat, I nibble at the sago and

I wake up and drag myself out of bed. As I open my bedroom door, there’s the burgundy sofa and I think, here we go again…

And that’s why it takes me so long to get up. It happens almost every morning so it must be chronic, and you wouldn’t blame someone who’s suffering from something chronic, would you? That’s discrimination.

Silence. Legs shifting.

So does this mean I don’t get the deduction?