Espresso at 2 A.M., Emo Eyes and Biohazard Farts
Last night’s slumber was fleeting, drifting in and out like rolling thunder. One moment I was wrapped in peaceful rest, and the next I was staring at the glow of my phone, checking the time. I had to be up by 2 a.m.—if you can even call that “morning”—and I was terrified I’d oversleep. It was going to be a long day.
When the alarm finally sounded, the very first thing I did—before dogs, before clothes, before even remembering my own name—was make coffee. Sweet caffeinated bliss. The espresso machine roared like angels singing, and at 2 a.m., coffee isn’t just a beverage; it’s a survival strategy. I poured it into my travel mug like liquid courage, fully aware it was the only thing standing between me and a total system crash. Armed with caffeine, I shuffled through the motions: tending to the dogs, brushing teeth, pulling myself together like a barely-functioning adult. Breakfast could wait; the pups were curled back up in their kennels, dreaming of squirrels and chaos. I promised them food when I returned.
The drive into work was wrapped in calm darkness, the kind that feels heavy but oddly comforting. At that hour, the world belongs to semis, the occasional SUV, and maybe a rogue drunk driver still trying to remember which pedal is which. The steady hum of the road almost felt like a lullaby—if lullabies came with air brakes and gas fumes.
Work passed in a blur, the early hours slipping by faster than expected. By the time I pulled back into the driveway, my true bosses were waiting—tails wagging, bodies wiggling, and slobbery kisses ready to remind me of my place in the hierarchy. Odin, ever the bossy one, rang the bell and sat at his bowl with a look that screamed, “You’re late, servant. Chop chop.”
I quickly took care of their royal needs and got back to work. But my eyes betrayed me—watering, swimming across the page, and was accompanied by yawns so wide I’m sure the dogs thought I was howling at the moon. Clearly, sleep had been more of a suggestion than an actual event. Finally, I caved. Productivity required a nap.
I set my alarm and stretched out on the hard wood platform (luxury at its finest). Within moments, both dogs leapt onto the bed in synchrony, settling in with their heads strategically placed on top of me. Odin’s head, in particular, weighed approximately as much as a small boulder and was crushing my leg.
Carefully, I slid my leg out from under him and repositioned his noggin onto the bed. Betrayal! He huffed, glared, and did the canine equivalent of muttering under his breath. After two dramatic circles, he body-slammed himself onto me like a furry WWE wrestler.
I could almost hear him: “Oh, so my head wasn’t good enough? Fine—behold the full glory of my body slam, human.”
I told him to get down. He did, eventually—dragging his paws like a teenager being asked to clean their room, complete with sighs that could rival any bratty teen.
I win, I thought smugly.
I drifted off into a blissful sleep, barely floating above my body. Freya’s soft snores harmonized with the pitter-patter of rain on the trailer roof. For a moment, life felt calm, whole, almost poetic. Then—RING. My phone yanked me back to reality.
It was work. Of course.
I answered, gave my two cents, and hung up, praying I could drift back under. That’s when Odin decided his exile was over. He leapt back onto the bed with a plop that shook the mattress and gave me the full “emo eyes” treatment, silently pleading, “Do you still love me, Mommy?”
Naturally, I caved. I scratched his head in the exact way he likes, and he sighed in exaggerated relief before melting into sleep.
And then, Freya—ever the lady—delivered her own performance. A fart. Soft in sound, violent in impact. The smell hit me like tear gas. Eyes watering, throat gagging, I popped upright and evacuated the bedroom as if the trailer were on fire. She looked at me as I fled, utterly unbothered, while I scolded her: “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
At that point, I accepted defeat. Between phone calls, dog drama, and toxic fumes, sleep was no longer in the cards. I opened my laptop and got back to work.
A few hours later, I officially declared my workday done. Between my ungodly early start and the at-home chaos shift, I had completed a full eight hours of torment. At last, I could look forward to a long three-day weekend. Thank the gods—and maybe a small army of coffee beans.
The rain let up, so I leashed up the pups and took them outside. Both made a beeline for the truck, tails wagging in anticipation of adventure. Their disappointment was apparent when I said, “Not today”. Back inside, I halfheartedly tinkered on the computer, but exhaustion crept in—both mental and physical.
My lupus flare may be mild now, maybe even loosening its grip, but it’s still there. That quiet, nagging pain wears you down, drop by drop, until your energy feels like it’s leaking through a sieve. Finally, I surrendered, turned on the TV, and drifted in that hazy space between wakefulness and slumber, dogs snoring beside me, rain tapping on the roof like applause for surviving another messy day.
Lessons of the Day
Espresso at dawn is less “luxury” and more “life support.”
The night shift belongs to truckers and insomniacs with espresso.
Odin’s motto: If you’re not feeding me, you’re failing me.
Forget weighted blankets—try a dog head crushing your leg.
My dog is one dramatic monologue away from starring in a soap opera.
“Emo eyes” are the canine equivalent of a guilt trip you can’t win.
Freya may be a lady, but her farts are classified as chemical weapons.
Naps don’t stand a chance against ring tones and canine theatrics.
Rest is a unicorn: beautiful, rare, and easily scared away.
Victory sometimes smells like coffee, dog hair, and mild regret.
