Personal Narrative Analysis

It is exactly seven in the morning. My alarm erupts with a harsh blast, and I am roughly dragged from the world of dreams to drudge once more through the world of the living. I wipe the sleep from my eyes, and contemplate for a moment escaping back into the world of sleep – how sweet would it be to fall back on the bed, close my eyes, and drift once more through my dreams. Perhaps if I were more alert, I could have dramatized the situation, “To sleep, perchance to dream”. But frankly, I'm not awake enough to quote anyone (with perhaps the exception of Shel Silverstein), only awake enough to stumble headlong into the shower with the deepest hope that I can, with hot water, rectify my current state. I can't. The water is not arousing but soothing, relaxing my muscles and lulling me back into my quiet place of reprieve. I am a poltergeist, raised forcibly from my sleep by some ungodly force, and ready to do battle with the world

O the wild charge I made, for not only did I manage to dry myself, but in my reverie I dressed as well and, for once, I managed to put my shirt on forwards, and not backwards on the first try. I take now to my sink, to brush my teeth, each damnable spot etched upon the enamel erased with the flick of the brush. Then to floss, stringing up each tooth, blood dripping from the floss where I have neglected this duty in the past. I wonder to myself briefly if I remembered to put on deodorant. I hadn't – and spent the next three minutes wandering around the room, trying to remember where I had stashed it the last time. Just for a second, I lay across my bed, in an effort to search the endless depths found beneath. In that moment, I forgot about the valiant effort which now left me draped across the bed, clothed and cleaned, but not yet fully awake. A brief moment of reprieve, I had to grant