Got my cuff from the lovely and talented Benjamin last week. Check it out:
And here's something I wrote about how I woke up this morning (true story):
I was drifting. My body was warm and comfy, wrapped in soft blankets, totally relaxed by the glowing feeling of having gotten enough sleep. I was just beginning the gentle ascent to natural, easy consciousness when I was poked out of my golden repose by a sharp sound. I woke, but did not open my eyes, just stumbled around in my head trying to figure out what jabbed me awake. The sound did not repeat itself, so I sifted back down again.
*knock knock knock* There it was again. I cracked an eye and looked at the alarm clock. The blue digits indicated 7:29am. I almost had a lock on what the sound was, but my brain was not yet able to match it against a list of identifiable culprits. I tried to reason with myself. Had it been a dream? What was I dreaming about? Nothing came to mind. I wasn't expecting a delivery, I certainly wasn't going to talk to any Jehovah's Witnesses, and I had probably imagined it, as the dog was still fast asleep. Faithful companion that she is, she would surely have woken up and started barking if someone was knocking at the front door. My eyes closed again and I resumed drowsing.
*BAM BAM BAM BAM* Ok, THAT was definitely the sound of someone banging on my front door with their fist. The dog was up and barking, I was sitting bolt upright in bed, and I was angry. Who the fuck would pound on my door at 7:30 in the fucking morning? I leapt out of bed, pulled on a shirt, yanked on some pants, and paused briefly to decide whether I wanted to retrieve the baseball bat from the office. I decided against it, as my white-hot fury would undoubtedly be sufficient to chastise whoever was at my front door.
As these thoughts percolated, and as my brain was still struggling to shrug on consciousness, I heard my new nemesis actually BANGING ON THE GATE TO THE SIDE YARD WITH A STICK. I pictured kids with a deathwish. I pictured someone getting a sheaf of Watchtowers shoved up their holy pucker hole. What I did NOT picture before I yanked the door open was Cops.
Yes, cops. Policemen. Deputies of the law. One was standing on my front porch, the other was over by the gate, and both of them had their hands resting on their guns. The cop on the porch (I'll call him Oakley '94, because that's when his sunglasses were last in fashion), looked at me for a moment, taking in my appearance. Spiky bed head at the top, startled, fully awake eyes below that, a "Zombie Peanut Butter" t-shirt, jeans, and pale bare feet.
"Did you call 911?" he asked.
"What?" I asked sagely.
"Did you call 911?"
"No?"
"We were knocking for about 20 minutes," said Officer Oakley '94, in a slighty put-off tone.
"Really? Sorry about that - I was totally asleep."
"Do you have a computer?"
"What?"
"Do you have a computer?"
"Yes?"
Oakley explained. "Sometimes computers will call 911 all by themselves. We can tell from the static."
"...", I said. By this point, the other cop had joined his pal on the porch. I'll call him RayBan '01. During this last exchange, he'd pushed his sunglasses up on his forehead and had been studying me closely. I realized that if there was a good cop and bad cop here, Rayban was the bad one. He didn't like the looks of me, and he didn't like that I'd wasted 20 minutes of his time by having the gall to be asleep while my computer called 911. I was about to be Hassled.
"Do you have any ID?" he asked.
"Yeah, let me get my wallet." I returned with it, pulled my ID out, and handed it to RayBan. He made a big show of examining it, dropped it, picked it back up, stared at my face, then at the ID, then handed it back.
"Has anyone who lives here ever been arrested?" asked my new friend Officer RayBan.
"What? No!" I protested.
"Who else lives here?"
"Just me and my dog."
"And you've never been arrested?"
"No."
"Has anyone who's ever been arrested stayed here at any point"? What the fuck?
"No, I've lived here since 2001, and no one has stayed here during that time." I said.
"Are you sure? I think I remember one of your neighbors, an older guy, saying that a felon used to stay here sometimes."
"No, that's not right. There's an old guy who lives next door, but he knows I'm not a felon."
"I'm pretty sure it was this house. No one else lives here?" He'd started tapping a large ring on his club. I enjoyed imagining that it was his graduation ring from Asshole Academy.
"No, I'm positive. You can run my ID if you want." I was feeling frisky now.
"Dude," said Oakley to Rayban, "I think the only place he lives is in your head." I liked Officer Oakley. He had panache. He slapped Rayban on the shoulder, turned to me and said "Have a nice day." Rayban gave me what I believe is the first "gimlet eye" I've ever received, slid his sunglasses down, and turned and walked off the porch behind Oakley.
The dog was already back in her bed, and I looked longingly at my rumpled sheets, knowing that there was no way I was going to get back to sleep. I was the kind of awake you normally get with a double espresso and a fistful of Excedrin. Nowhere to go but forward, fast.
And here's something I wrote about how I woke up this morning (true story):
I was drifting. My body was warm and comfy, wrapped in soft blankets, totally relaxed by the glowing feeling of having gotten enough sleep. I was just beginning the gentle ascent to natural, easy consciousness when I was poked out of my golden repose by a sharp sound. I woke, but did not open my eyes, just stumbled around in my head trying to figure out what jabbed me awake. The sound did not repeat itself, so I sifted back down again.
*knock knock knock* There it was again. I cracked an eye and looked at the alarm clock. The blue digits indicated 7:29am. I almost had a lock on what the sound was, but my brain was not yet able to match it against a list of identifiable culprits. I tried to reason with myself. Had it been a dream? What was I dreaming about? Nothing came to mind. I wasn't expecting a delivery, I certainly wasn't going to talk to any Jehovah's Witnesses, and I had probably imagined it, as the dog was still fast asleep. Faithful companion that she is, she would surely have woken up and started barking if someone was knocking at the front door. My eyes closed again and I resumed drowsing.
*BAM BAM BAM BAM* Ok, THAT was definitely the sound of someone banging on my front door with their fist. The dog was up and barking, I was sitting bolt upright in bed, and I was angry. Who the fuck would pound on my door at 7:30 in the fucking morning? I leapt out of bed, pulled on a shirt, yanked on some pants, and paused briefly to decide whether I wanted to retrieve the baseball bat from the office. I decided against it, as my white-hot fury would undoubtedly be sufficient to chastise whoever was at my front door.
As these thoughts percolated, and as my brain was still struggling to shrug on consciousness, I heard my new nemesis actually BANGING ON THE GATE TO THE SIDE YARD WITH A STICK. I pictured kids with a deathwish. I pictured someone getting a sheaf of Watchtowers shoved up their holy pucker hole. What I did NOT picture before I yanked the door open was Cops.
Yes, cops. Policemen. Deputies of the law. One was standing on my front porch, the other was over by the gate, and both of them had their hands resting on their guns. The cop on the porch (I'll call him Oakley '94, because that's when his sunglasses were last in fashion), looked at me for a moment, taking in my appearance. Spiky bed head at the top, startled, fully awake eyes below that, a "Zombie Peanut Butter" t-shirt, jeans, and pale bare feet.
"Did you call 911?" he asked.
"What?" I asked sagely.
"Did you call 911?"
"No?"
"We were knocking for about 20 minutes," said Officer Oakley '94, in a slighty put-off tone.
"Really? Sorry about that - I was totally asleep."
"Do you have a computer?"
"What?"
"Do you have a computer?"
"Yes?"
Oakley explained. "Sometimes computers will call 911 all by themselves. We can tell from the static."
"...", I said. By this point, the other cop had joined his pal on the porch. I'll call him RayBan '01. During this last exchange, he'd pushed his sunglasses up on his forehead and had been studying me closely. I realized that if there was a good cop and bad cop here, Rayban was the bad one. He didn't like the looks of me, and he didn't like that I'd wasted 20 minutes of his time by having the gall to be asleep while my computer called 911. I was about to be Hassled.
"Do you have any ID?" he asked.
"Yeah, let me get my wallet." I returned with it, pulled my ID out, and handed it to RayBan. He made a big show of examining it, dropped it, picked it back up, stared at my face, then at the ID, then handed it back.
"Has anyone who lives here ever been arrested?" asked my new friend Officer RayBan.
"What? No!" I protested.
"Who else lives here?"
"Just me and my dog."
"And you've never been arrested?"
"No."
"Has anyone who's ever been arrested stayed here at any point"? What the fuck?
"No, I've lived here since 2001, and no one has stayed here during that time." I said.
"Are you sure? I think I remember one of your neighbors, an older guy, saying that a felon used to stay here sometimes."
"No, that's not right. There's an old guy who lives next door, but he knows I'm not a felon."
"I'm pretty sure it was this house. No one else lives here?" He'd started tapping a large ring on his club. I enjoyed imagining that it was his graduation ring from Asshole Academy.
"No, I'm positive. You can run my ID if you want." I was feeling frisky now.
"Dude," said Oakley to Rayban, "I think the only place he lives is in your head." I liked Officer Oakley. He had panache. He slapped Rayban on the shoulder, turned to me and said "Have a nice day." Rayban gave me what I believe is the first "gimlet eye" I've ever received, slid his sunglasses down, and turned and walked off the porch behind Oakley.
The dog was already back in her bed, and I looked longingly at my rumpled sheets, knowing that there was no way I was going to get back to sleep. I was the kind of awake you normally get with a double espresso and a fistful of Excedrin. Nowhere to go but forward, fast.
excellent cuff by the way. benjamin rocks. he made me some dainty little wrist cuffs customly made to fit (my wrists are really small). he's a creative dude.