The Morning Glory and I

I hate Morning Glories – human Morning Glories, that is. By way of definition, a human Morning Glory is that class of homo-sapiens which invariable spring from its bed every morning expostulating on the glories of the newly-come day, partaking of several strenuous exercises, and bursting outdoors to greet Old Sol, it then makes a dash for the cafeteria and a heave-hardy breakfast.

Let me cite an example. My roommate is a Morning Glory. Beating his alarm clock up every morning, he rushes to the window and inhales a lungful of the brisk morning air. After several thumps on the chest, roomy is off to the shower across the hall where he showers and shaves while singing all thirteen verses of “I Love You Madly”. Returning to the room scrubbed and anointed, he dresses and then pauses before the window, enraptured with Mother Nature (Mother Nature from our window consists of two fraternity houses, three garbage cans and miscellaneous scraggly trees). Then he bounds to my bedside flashing a Sodium Fluoride smile and solemnly announces that day “hath come.”

I, on the other hand, am a one-hundred-percent-normal college student. Having knocked my persistent alarm clock across the room, I slowly drag out of bed, shut the window, and yawn my way across the hall to the shower room, where I leer at my reflection in the mirror and shudder as the cold water hits my back in the shower stall. Still yawning and wondering how morning got here so quickly, I dress and trudge over to the cafeteria for a quick tomato juice “on the rocks” and a cup of coffee. Thus, I have just enough time for an after-breakfast cigarette before my first class.

Being of sound mind (and wanting to stay that way) I decided to cure roomy of Morning Gloryitis. I first tried keeping him awake very late at night, but no matter how late I kept him up, he still bounced forth the next morning with the same zeal as before. Then I resorted to trickery. I slipped a sleeping pill into his mouth wash. This, too, failed to cure him. By that time, I had become desperate. My crusade to cure roomy was now a point of honor. Thus, a week ago I walked into my room with a little jar which I felt held the answer to my problem. The purple letters against the orange background of the label glared at me: “Aunt Hortense’s Rattlesnake Balm.” After having smeared the miracle formula liberally on roomy’s toothbrush, I went to bed, chuckling over my success.

The next morning proved to be a black day for both me and Aunt Hortense. The Morning Glory bloomed per usual. I was licked and I knew it. Having rewarded Aunt Hortense’s Rattlesnake Balm with a heave to the waste basket, I stomped out of the room and went to class.

Being basically a scientist, I have formed many hypotheses about Morning Glories. Every spare minute that I get I spend in trying to find a cure in order to rid the world of Morning Glories. In the event that I do find that cure, I shall become a saint to the millions of college students who like to sleep late and have roommates who don’t.