Sobriety Is A Fallen Princess

The one where we awake to an unusually hangover-free morning, the new Fallout isn't terrible, and Peach can do one.

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Any other day and my lizard brain would be quietly hissing by ever more desperate degrees for sleep but thismorning, I am fully conscious and most irritatingly, I don’t feel like I mind all that much. I am irritated. I am irritated by my own damn self who is allegedly not irritated at being roused into the chill air of an unheated bedroom and I curse him as he fumbles for the light cord above an over-populated bedside table, knocking over one too many quarter full water glasses in the process. The little girl from ‘Signs’ has shit on this guy.

We taco ourselves into the duvet and shuffle barefoot to the airing cupboard on the landing, where I muscle reflex punch a luxurious two hours worth of emersion heating into a permanently ajar control panel. The door to the cupboard itself appears to have been fixed at some point in the recent past, although the handle still turns upward to deter a now-somewhat taller offspring from accessing that sacred realm. I know exactly who is responsible for this improved custom job and I experience that familiar pang of gratitude blended with guilt somewhere behind my sternum.

we edge cautiously into the space, eyeing her partially raised blind with Quasimodoesque trepidation