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The full title of this piece is, are you ready, Six to Six-Thirty and Pancakes or Scatterbrained or Discombobulated

And now the story.

I feel like I'm on the cusp of a breakthrough.  For the past fortnight I've been brainstorming tirelessly.  Now I'm too tired.  The brainstorming has become a light trickle and the sun is coming out.  It's too bright out there, so I close the drapes.  Shadows drape over the wire spine of the notebook.  The light stops shining off it.  It's no longer brilliant.
My mind feels like gelatin, but I'm not hungry for desert.  It's not worth noting.  I put on some music and the notes keep track of the rhythm, and my upstairs neighbor keeps track of the volume.  She says it's too loud, her instrument is a broom handle, and her voice is a contralto.  She's off key and off beat; no style whatsoever.  According to her lyrics she's got three kids and they're all trying to sleep.  If I were her daughter, then I'd be one of the sleepers and she'd be protecting me from the noise below.
       This contralto will probably sing to her child about kids who grow up to be like me.  But there are worse ways to grow up, and grow out, and lash out. I hope her daughter grows up to be like me.
       The contralto's daughter
Maybe fifteen years in the future,
An upstairs neighbor will pound on her ceiling.
This girl, my age by then,
Will be told to keep quiet for the sake of a sleeping daughter
Who rests one floor above.
She will remember how her mother did the same for her
And wish the same fate on that sleeping daughter.
This will continue
And the apartments will keep getting taller
Until sleeping daughters touch the sky.
That's good, I write it down.
But now I'm the one below her and her sleeping family.  I'm the one making the racket at six in the morning.  I'm the one who's got a deadline in four hours, and I'll be dead if I don't have a new song by then.
       My boss is not a tough man, he's not even very big, but more than once he's flexed his muscles and I had to bow down, way, way down.  When I hit the bottom I find myself.  I think I've been at the bottom of the barrel my whole life, that's what my mother says.  If she were here, she'd say "Keep quiet, turn off that damn music because some of us have to work in the morning!"
But I do have to work, and it is morning, six in the morning.  And if I don't get working, my ass is grass.  The grass I smoked last night was enough to keep me occupied with the drawing of a coffee cup, I had to stop when the coffee ran out, and I ran out for more coffee.  The people here last night ran out too, they had places to be, people to talk to, like they were following a list, but I wasn't on that list or I had already been checked off and accounted for.  No accounting for my feelings.
They say pictures are worth a thousand words, what if you could take a picture of music, would it be worth a thousand lyrics?  Would my boss buy them, or would he tell me to look into another line of work.  No question mark, it's rhetorical.  Why am I alone.  No question mark for the same reason.
Everyone here last night was someone I've slept with, but they didn't want to hang around.  They only wanted to hang out.
       After the condoms and booze run out we're alone, but is everyone else alone, or do they find someone else with more booze and more condoms?  Condoms have to be the most intimate piece of latex I buy.  My ex once said, "If you think I look good now, you should see me in a condom."  I laughed, we screwed, the latex was thrown away, and he cooked me two eggs for breakfast.
       Breakfast.  Pancakes would hit the spot right now.  Maybe the diner.  They serve a nice five-stack.  I'd ask the neighbor lady if she and her kids want to join me, but I grab my purse and notebook instead.  The upstairs lady would probably scowl and purse her lips at me just for asking.
       The night air always reminds me of something, but it's always something different.  Tonight the air reminds me that I forgot my keys in the apartment, but my purse reminds me that I didn't.  The jingle of the keys is reassuring, not so as much the icy sidewalk.  My ass is also on the sidewalk and ice.  It's funny how slippery the sidewalk is in March. I laugh heartily, if only so the drunk watching me doesn't think I'm hurt.  He doesn't need an excuse to come over, and I don't want him to.  Does anyone want him?  Is that why he's a drunk?  Or is he unwanted because he's a drunk?  Who drank first, the chicken or the egg?  If I drank myself onto the streets would anyone want me?  I'm prettier than him, I'm sure I could find a good job, or a rich horny man somewhere.
       The floor of the diner has spilled ranch dressing that looks like semen but is free of ice, unlike the damn sidewalk.  The diner is not lacking in drunks though.  At least these drunks are not laughing at me.  That's funny, if I were them and I saw a girl walk in with a wet mark on her ass I'd laugh at her.  Stupid girl, I'd think.
       The sign at the door says, "PLEASE   EAT YOURSELF."  Someone covered the S on the word SEAT, it used to be clever, but now it's cliché.  A man in the corner laughs, I assume he's seen my wet pants, but I don't think it's funny anymore.  I walk as far from him as I can.  Do they make their pancakes from a can?
       "What can I getcha?  Coffee to start?" the waitress suggests before I even sit down.  She puts a napkin on the table and a few more when she sees my pants.
       What's she thinking?  "I can't have coffee," I say, "I've got to be awake in four hours.  Just a five-stack, please."  Waitresses are usually pleased when you're nice to them, but she ran off without a word.  And I wanted to have a word about how they make their pancakes.
It's time to finish that song.  That is why I came here.  There was a purpose, besides slipping and getting laughed at by drunks.
I must have grabbed the wrong notebook.  This notebook is blank.  My mind draws a blank, like the first page.  The page looks peculiar, because the big border is at the bottom, instead of the top.  It's all backwards, I laugh at my own stupidity.  A drunk at the bars laughs but this isn't his joke.  This notebook is my life, and his life is a joke, because he's here at six in the morning laughing at a joke he doesn't get and isn't allowed to have.
       Luckily the notebook isn't backwards; it's not even the wrong one, it's just upside-down.  The lyrics I've been working on are still there and they still suck.  How can I write a song when my life is as backwards as the notebook was?  Maybe it's all okay and just upside-down.  No, I'm fooling myself, everything's not okay.
The waitress sets down the pancakes, she doesn't say a word though.  It didn't take long to make them.
       "Do these come from a can?" I ask.
"No."
       I want her to elaborate, but she's gone again, her shoes tap the floor until they reach the puddle of ranch dressing, they don't make the same noise again.  It impregnates her sole.
       The top pancake of my five-stack is tiny and reminds me of my ex, the one who thought he looked good in a condom.  At least he knew what he was doing; too bad he couldn't do it for longer.
My fountain pen, the one I use for writing lyrics, taps on the napkin leaving a puddle of ink which runs toward a thin scar on my little wrist.  The pen was my father's, it's slender, like my father is, like my ex is.  The difference was that my ex desired me while my father only sired me.  After I ran away and changed my name he sent me two hundred dollars and told me to never come back.  My father de-sired me, and I accepted.  My ex still comes over, he still makes the condom joke, I still laugh and we still screw.
The slender pen is leaving more ink on the napkin than the notebook.  The rhythm of the tapping matches my neighbor who played the broom on my ceiling.  The pattern of the ink reminds me of slides they showed me in therapy.  Rorschach.  To me it looks like penis.
       Inspiration finally hits like a fork hitting my teeth.  That fork was supposed to be moving pancakes to my mouth, not grating steel into my bicuspid.
I scribble lyrics while the pancakes cool.  The lyrics are genius, the syrup is forming a cold skin, but I couldn't be happier.  I can tell that the waitress is looking over my shoulder when she walks by.  She's probably looking down on me at the same time, thinking that I'm below her because she works a regular job.  But if I didn't eat here, she wouldn't have that job, then whose shoulder would she look over as they scribble words about their ex, and a joke and a condom.  No question mark.
There are three and a half pancakes left.  There are three and a half hours before my deadline.  The work is finished but the pancakes are cold an inedible.  It's a small price to pay.  I pay the waitress with cash and leave the diner forfeiting the pancakes.  The happy waitress and the laughing drunks can share their time together but not me, I've got things to do and they're not on my list.

Description
The full title of this piece is, are you ready, Six to Six-Thirty and Pancakes or Scatterbrained or Discombobulated

And now the story.

I feel like I'm on the cusp of a breakthrough.  For the past fortnight I've been brainstorming tirelessly.  Now I'm too tired.  The brainstorming has become a light trickle and the sun is coming out.  It's too bright out there, so I close the drapes.  Shadows drape over the wire spine of the notebook.  The light stops shining off it.  It's no longer brilliant.
My mind feels like gelatin, but I'm not hungry for desert.  It's not worth noting.  I put on some music and the notes keep track of the rhythm, and my upstairs neighbor keeps track of the volume.  She says it's too loud, her instrument is a broom handle, and her voice is a contralto.  She's off key and off beat; no style whatsoever.  According to her lyrics she's got three kids and they're all trying to sleep.  If I were her daughter, then I'd be one of the sleepers and she'd be protecting me from the noise below.
       This contralto will probably sing to her child about kids who grow up to be like me.  But there are worse ways to grow up, and grow out, and lash out. I hope her daughter grows up to be like me.
       The contralto's daughter
Maybe fifteen years in the future,
An upstairs neighbor will pound on her ceiling.
This girl, my age by then,
Will be told to keep quiet for the sake of a sleeping daughter
Who rests one floor above.
She will remember how her mother did the same for her
And wish the same fate on that sleeping daughter.
This will continue
And the apartments will keep getting taller
Until sleeping daughters touch the sky.
That's good, I write it down.
But now I'm the one below her and her sleeping family.  I'm the one making the racket at six in the morning.  I'm the one who's got a deadline in four hours, and I'll be dead if I don't have a new song by then.
       My boss is not a tough man, he's not even very big, but more than once he's flexed his muscles and I had to bow down, way, way down.  When I hit the bottom I find myself.  I think I've been at the bottom of the barrel my whole life, that's what my mother says.  If she were here, she'd say "Keep quiet, turn off that damn music because some of us have to work in the morning!"
But I do have to work, and it is morning, six in the morning.  And if I don't get working, my ass is grass.  The grass I smoked last night was enough to keep me occupied with the drawing of a coffee cup, I had to stop when the coffee ran out, and I ran out for more coffee.  The people here last night ran out too, they had places to be, people to talk to, like they were following a list, but I wasn't on that list or I had already been checked off and accounted for.  No accounting for my feelings.
They say pictures are worth a thousand words, what if you could take a picture of music, would it be worth a thousand lyrics?  Would my boss buy them, or would he tell me to look into another line of work.  No question mark, it's rhetorical.  Why am I alone.  No question mark for the same reason.
Everyone here last night was someone I've slept with, but they didn't want to hang around.  They only wanted to hang out.
       After the condoms and booze run out we're alone, but is everyone else alone, or do they find someone else with more booze and more condoms?  Condoms have to be the most intimate piece of latex I buy.  My ex once said, "If you think I look good now, you should see me in a condom."  I laughed, we screwed, the latex was thrown away, and he cooked me two eggs for breakfast.
       Breakfast.  Pancakes would hit the spot right now.  Maybe the diner.  They serve a nice five-stack.  I'd ask the neighbor lady if she and her kids want to join me, but I grab my purse and notebook instead.  The upstairs lady would probably scowl and purse her lips at me just for asking.
       The night air always reminds me of something, but it's always something different.  Tonight the air reminds me that I forgot my keys in the apartment, but my purse reminds me that I didn't.  The jingle of the keys is reassuring, not so as much the icy sidewalk.  My ass is also on the sidewalk and ice.  It's funny how slippery the sidewalk is in March. I laugh heartily, if only so the drunk watching me doesn't think I'm hurt.  He doesn't need an excuse to come over, and I don't want him to.  Does anyone want him?  Is that why he's a drunk?  Or is he unwanted because he's a drunk?  Who drank first, the chicken or the egg?  If I drank myself onto the streets would anyone want me?  I'm prettier than him, I'm sure I could find a good job, or a rich horny man somewhere.
       The floor of the diner has spilled ranch dressing that looks like semen but is free of ice, unlike the damn sidewalk.  The diner is not lacking in drunks though.  At least these drunks are not laughing at me.  That's funny, if I were them and I saw a girl walk in with a wet mark on her ass I'd laugh at her.  Stupid girl, I'd think.
       The sign at the door says, "PLEASE   EAT YOURSELF."  Someone covered the S on the word SEAT, it used to be clever, but now it's cliché.  A man in the corner laughs, I assume he's seen my wet pants, but I don't think it's funny anymore.  I walk as far from him as I can.  Do they make their pancakes from a can?
       "What can I getcha?  Coffee to start?" the waitress suggests before I even sit down.  She puts a napkin on the table and a few more when she sees my pants.
       What's she thinking?  "I can't have coffee," I say, "I've got to be awake in four hours.  Just a five-stack, please."  Waitresses are usually pleased when you're nice to them, but she ran off without a word.  And I wanted to have a word about how they make their pancakes.
It's time to finish that song.  That is why I came here.  There was a purpose, besides slipping and getting laughed at by drunks.
I must have grabbed the wrong notebook.  This notebook is blank.  My mind draws a blank, like the first page.  The page looks peculiar, because the big border is at the bottom, instead of the top.  It's all backwards, I laugh at my own stupidity.  A drunk at the bars laughs but this isn't his joke.  This notebook is my life, and his life is a joke, because he's here at six in the morning laughing at a joke he doesn't get and isn't allowed to have.
       Luckily the notebook isn't backwards; it's not even the wrong one, it's just upside-down.  The lyrics I've been working on are still there and they still suck.  How can I write a song when my life is as backwards as the notebook was?  Maybe it's all okay and just upside-down.  No, I'm fooling myself, everything's not okay.
The waitress sets down the pancakes, she doesn't say a word though.  It didn't take long to make them.
       "Do these come from a can?" I ask.
"No."
       I want her to elaborate, but she's gone again, her shoes tap the floor until they reach the puddle of ranch dressing, they don't make the same noise again.  It impregnates her sole.
       The top pancake of my five-stack is tiny and reminds me of my ex, the one who thought he looked good in a condom.  At least he knew what he was doing; too bad he couldn't do it for longer.
My fountain pen, the one I use for writing lyrics, taps on the napkin leaving a puddle of ink which runs toward a thin scar on my little wrist.  The pen was my father's, it's slender, like my father is, like my ex is.  The difference was that my ex desired me while my father only sired me.  After I ran away and changed my name he sent me two hundred dollars and told me to never come back.  My father de-sired me, and I accepted.  My ex still comes over, he still makes the condom joke, I still laugh and we still screw.
The slender pen is leaving more ink on the napkin than the notebook.  The rhythm of the tapping matches my neighbor who played the broom on my ceiling.  The pattern of the ink reminds me of slides they showed me in therapy.  Rorschach.  To me it looks like penis.
       Inspiration finally hits like a fork hitting my teeth.  That fork was supposed to be moving pancakes to my mouth, not grating steel into my bicuspid.
I scribble lyrics while the pancakes cool.  The lyrics are genius, the syrup is forming a cold skin, but I couldn't be happier.  I can tell that the waitress is looking over my shoulder when she walks by.  She's probably looking down on me at the same time, thinking that I'm below her because she works a regular job.  But if I didn't eat here, she wouldn't have that job, then whose shoulder would she look over as they scribble words about their ex, and a joke and a condom.  No question mark.
There are three and a half pancakes left.  There are three and a half hours before my deadline.  The work is finished but the pancakes are cold an inedible.  It's a small price to pay.  I pay the waitress with cash and leave the diner forfeiting the pancakes.  The happy waitress and the laughing drunks can share their time together but not me, I've got things to do and they're not on my list.