I hate waking up before the alarm.

Today was supposed to be a later-than-usual start with me, because my flight doesn't leave until noon. So I set my alarm for 7 a.m., thinking that gave me plenty of time for sleep and packing and getting to the airport.

And then my body woke me up at 1:30. Which began a wee-early-morning-hours trend. First it was a nightmare about missing my flight. Then it was a nightmare about losing someone important. Then it was a dream involving cornflakes that was, at the time, disturbing for some reason. Then there was a nightmare that Southwest lost my luggage. Then continued dreams about things going wrong at work until finally, at 5:30 a.m., I gave up.

All those lost hours of sleep. Sigh.

I hate packing.

I fly to Vegas tomorrow for a couple days and the trip has been planned for six months. I could have started packing weeks ago! At the very least, I could have done some laundry. Or pulled my suitcase out from under the bed.

Instead I have 12 hours until the cab comes to pick me up, and I have to spent 40 minutes of it running and 8 of it sleeping, and three of it doing work I didn't have a chance to finish last week. Which means no time for laundry or ironing or getting my suit pants hemmed. But I did find plenty of time this weekend to hang out at Asylum and sit on the curb and smoke and wander up and down 14th Street for five hours because the weather was so fucking gorgeous and download tons of new music and drink five rum and diet cokes, three 25-cent beers, two bottles of wine and five cups of coffee.

I hate being dehydrated, too.

I hate dreaming about tofu.

I like tofu. I like to cook it. I like to eat it. I don't mind buying it.

But I really don't like dreaming about huge, wobbly, skyscraper-high towers of gleaming white tofu. It's just too unsettling of an image for my 5:00 a.m. wake-up call. Particularly when the towers of tofu are so tall, you're afraid they will fall over and suffocate you in bean curd.

I hate half-empty bottles of wine.

Because then you go home from work and stare at them. And stare and stare. And want to drink. And drink and drink. Hmm mmmm.

I hate dust.

In the interest of posting something, I am posting about how I hate dust. I hate looking at dust. I hate cleaning dust. I hate feeling dust. I'm not even allergic to the damn stuff. I hate how I let the dust in my apartment represent everything I have ever procrastinated about in life.

Now I challenge you to find a person who does not hate dust.