I wake at 6:04am. The noise of blackbirds screeching outside the bedroom window wakes me. What the hell, I am up…time for my morning routine.

I wish I could report to you that I begin the day with forty-five minutes of brisk exercise, or that I engage in the enlightened practice of meditation, or even that I just take a shower and get dressed and get all my ducks in a row.

I have done all these things at one point or another, even at times in a routine manner, but this morning, like so many mornings, I am writing and drinking coffee. I guess my inner Fran Lebowitz has taken over my life; now if only she would move me to Manhattan…and pay for it!

If writing were exercise, I would be a world class athlete...I would be Arnold Schwarzenegger; If writing were profitable I would be the Donald Trump of words. I can't believe I just brought up Arnold and Donald in a sentence about writing. What is in this coffee? (I have run out of sweetener…also not good for me…and used a spoon of real sugar…also not good for me… maybe that is the root of this particular evil.

Pizza is a no-no.

I ate pizza last night.  Now that is evil food. To me, pizza is the morphine of the food addict's guidebook. Forget narcotics…have a slice of New York style pizza. What do I mean by "a slice?" A slice, in this instance, really refers to half of a large pepperoni and cheese, sauce on the top, sauce on the bottom, morphine-injected pizza. Am I the only one here who blows up like the Hindenburg after eating this stuff?

Pizza is a love/hate relationship in a flat cardboard box.

Well, then, I will leave you hanging right there, pondering the depth of my philosophical capabilities. After all, not everyone can be Mariah Carey first thing in the morning.

And so a new day begins…or something of that nature.