I wish that Charles Dickens, Allen Ginsberg, and Frida Kahlo all went to my high school.

I have always hated morning. With the occasional welcome exception, the mornings in my life have been cold, cruel, and more demanding than I am prepared to handle gracefully at such a clumsy hour. I always feel that the morning itself is watching me the way that cold-hearted passersby watch a drunken homeless man try to tie his shoe. The whole concept of morning is intrusive: it catches you unawares when your hair is at its terrifyingly silliest, when your speech is at its most primitive, and your breath smells like an Eastern-European ogre after eating a herd of goats and the thirteen-year-old boy responsible for watching them.