Not Quite an Epiphany

What is better than waking up next to a pretty girl and sharing a fresh pot of coffee together, cool morning air dancing over satisfied bodies and longing skin, a lazy Sunday when all things are in bloom and smelling fresh, alive, like newly cut grass and sunshine, birds flitting and doing decidedly bird-like things, dew glistening on tomato plants and rose petals, the sun overtaking a deep blue sky that is smattered with stray puffy white clouds, one that looks in turns like a Volkswagen beetle, Africa, Jerry Reed’s profile c. 1963, and an umlaut… and both of you are mildly chilly , sitting hip to hip on a cool cement porch talking quietly, the language of lovers and friends, watching all things come to life, full of hope and smiles and confident that barring any unseen catastrophes within the next 18 hours you’ll be back in bed together all spoons and nuzzles and exploring hands?
What could possibly be better than that, you foolishly ask?
I’ll tell you.
Journey’s Greatest Hits at 6 AM, LOUD, all “midnight trains” and “lights in the city” as you rabbit punch a 2,000 pound copy machine and call it a cunt as it jams for the 30th time in 10 minutes as some idiotic paper stock from World Vision, that was in no way made to be printed on, tries to navigate through the various twists, turns and fusers of a DT6135.
That is what is better, my friends. And don’t let anyone tell you different.