I’ve always had trouble getting up in the mornings, but this year has been particularly upsetting. The problem is partly one of temperature: inside my blankets is the perfect climate. I am a bagel, and the toaster has been set to “keep warm.” My room, however, is an icy tundra, with snow on the floor and biting winds piercing the air. Getting up would mean risking hypothermia, tuberculosis, or hypertuberculosis, a dangerous combination in our post-swine flu reality. I better stay in bed, I tell myself it’s for my health.

Another issue is my swath of responsibilities, like going to class or finishing homework. You see, I don’t want to do either. They sound physically strenuous or unpleasant, especially when I consider the ice storm assailing my room. Shivering, I bring my blankets closer to my naked body and slowly drift back to sleep. Just before I lose consciousness, I hear a voice softly whisper, “Don’t worry, little Igor. Your homework is but an illusion.” I rest.

Well, this was all puppies and kittens for the first two weeks of school, but then I noticed my grades suffering. Did you know TA’s take roll in section? I know, it’s ridiculous. The only place roll should be taken is in a sushi bar. But this is the society in which we live, so I decided to conform. I declared I would wake up every morning at 7:30. First, I needed to take care of the sub-zero temperature in my room.

I went to K-Mart and picked up a space heater. At $29.99, it was an investment, but I bit the bullet and bought it. I also bought a five-dollar pizza on my way out because the K-Mart lady told me to. That was the worst pizza of my life. When I got home, I plugged the space heater into the socket and turned it on. Sweet, sticky, hot air began to pump out of the heater and I jumped and danced with glee. Five minutes later, the circuit blew and our house was plunged into frigid darkness. Apparently, Isla Vista houses built in the late 60s can’t withstand the raw power of modern space heaters. I knew I would have to find another way of warming myself in the mornings. After rifling through my housemate’s physics textbook I discovered something called friction, and the following morning before attempting to get up, I rubbed my arms and body as fast as I could, generating something called kinetic energy, which felt tingly and fun. “Stop masturbating,” my roommate sleepily said. “I’m not masturbating, stupid, I’m just warming my body. God.” He seemed satisfied and went back to sleep. That’s when I realized I could masturbate and no one would know.

Now that my temperature problem was solved, all I had to find was the will to get out of bed. I figured maybe the problem was with my alarm clock, so I set my alarm ring as my own voice, using an audio clip I had recorded urging myself to get up. After two days, I found myself screaming threats to my phoneself only to find my phoneself yelling back. I knew the situation was growing dire when my roommate started sleeping on the couch, but I didn’t know what to do. I rolled up and down my bed, trying to find the answer, but none came.

I awoke sometime later to find my housemate, David, sitting in my chair staring at me as I slept. He was wearing his white bathrobe, and the way it was tied coupled with his growing beard made him look like a wise old sensei. “What should I do, David?” I pleaded desperately. “The farmer with a broken plow will till the earth past sunset,” he said sagely. “Also, there’ll be girls coming over soon, so you should get ready.” Five minutes later, I found myself in the shower, scrubbing away the layers of laziness and sloth.