Tardiness

I am very untimely. I always am, though I don’t mean to be. I realize that being late is a strong indication that I don’t care. It’s not so much that I don’t care for this one particular get-together or job, it’s that I just don’t care much for anything. Nothing ever bothers me much, and that is a problem.

I am worst in the mornings. I usually blame it on the fact that I’m sleepy, as though I am another person when I haven’t awoken. This is how I rationalize my lying, my cursing, my arrival to work several hours late. “It wasn’t me,” as the ever-wise Shaggy muses.

These are just excuses, though. I’m the one who is responsible for my actions. If I valued my job and my friends, I wouldn’t be making up excuses, blaming my imaginary scapegoat.

Damn it, I need to sleep earlier and wake earlier. All the forward clock-setting in the world won’t help if I don’t give a shit.