When my wife finally got around to dumping a glass of cold water on my face, I had less than three minutes to make it to work. I don’t know why she can never take the responsibility of getting me up on time. To make things worse, she tried to make it sound as if I had hit my snooze button 30 times. That forced me to spend most of those precious three minutes attempting to explain to her that my alarm clock must have malfunctioned again.
At length I had to reconcile my mind to the reality that she would never be willing to accept the truth. Allowing anguished martyrdom to paint a glimmer of pathos across my expression, I sighed tragically, turned and trudged toward the shower.
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