There are morning people. Morning people get up with the sun, and cheerfully stretch and yawn and smile, and revel in the glory of the sunrise and the hope of a new day. They eat a nutritious breakfast, and skip off to work or whatever, singing along with the happily chirping birdies as they wave at the mailman (Or if you're in my neighborhood, the mailman comes in the afternoon, so they have to wave at the trash guys instead).
But I'm not here to write about them. That's basically all I know about the strange ways of morning people.
People like myself prefer the mystery of the night, and occasionally dance around their front yard like a little fairy in the moonlight. They find starlight and night air intoxicating. It's silly to sleep when the world is so full of excellence. They go to sleep very very early in the morning. They prefer to sleep straight through the morning, and are much happier if allowed to do so.
If one disturbs a creature of the night's sleep cycle by having them work mornings, the nocturnal being tends to become pissed off, and generally cranky. Sure, they love their job. And once there, they don't mind, and forget that it is indeed still morning.
It's the getting up that's difficult. First, the alarm goes off. Alarms are terrible. THEY WAKE YOU UUUUUUPPPP. BY BEEPING. Or slightly less offensive weird noises, if you use your cell phone.
The sun has come up, and ruined all the lovely night air. The freaking birds won't shut up. If you have the misfortune of living with morning people. they wish you a cheerful, "Good Morning!". You rip their face off as you stagger past them to the bathroom.
HOLY CARP (yes, carp) THERE'S A MONSTER IN THE BATHROOM.
KILL IT. KILL IT WITH FI- Oh. No, no, that's just the mirror.
Now, this may not apply to all nocturnal humans, but I have noticed that most night people do not eat a nutritious breakfast. They have things like chocolate chip cookies, or a slice of mince pie and a Dr.Pepper. And no, this is not just me. My grandmother does it too (It is another observation of mine that elderly people rarely eat healthy. Eating healthy must not be all it's cracked up to be, 'cause hey, they made it this far).
Sometimes you have a particularly bad morning, where you keep dropping things, and hitting your elbows on stuff. You thought this was annoying? It could be worse. Maybe your car sounded funny. So you pull into the parking lot of the Chevron station around the corner from your house, turn the car off, and then attempt to turn it back on again. BUT IT DOESN'T TURN ON. Now you get to walk back home, and enlist the help of your also-barely-awake brother, and his ancient orange Malibu.
The Malibu deserves its own blog post, but since the Malibu is not my friend, I refuse to give it the satisfaction. The Malibu has been christened Ol' Stubborn Stanley.
Stanley runs. Barely. His doors don't stay open, and try to shut on your feet. Don't tip over on the seats. A giant cloud of seat will come up and attack your face (Seats really shouldn't come in clouds. O.o). He's slow. The needle on Stanley speedometer rocks back and forth you go over 40 mph. Actually, I don't even know if it's 40 mph. The needle was rocking back and forth at the time. Stanley is too old to have a mirror on either side of the car, so the passenger cannot even make faces at herself, or check her hair. Ah well. It gives you more time to pray. Stanley probably runs on prayer more than anything else.
Having said all this, I suppose it is obvious that I hate riding in Stanley. Especially first thing in the morning.
See? SEEEEE how bad mornings can be? THEY'RE EVIL. They are the epitome of badness.
And that is why it is always morning in Hell (Except, presumably, for the morning people. Because then they'd like it there. And they'd be missing the whole point of eternal torment).