The Unstable Self

Write a 500 word story that alternates between the I and the he or she (the name of the narrator), making sure you don't confuse reader with the switches. Look for the musical sound of abrupt self-transcendence.
(from prompt #4 in The 3 AM Epiphany)
Read my response:



I get up at 4:00 in the morning. It’s refreshing. Every evening I say to myself, I will wake up at 4:00 and I will bound up out of bed with joy in my heart and light in my soul. I have no idea what it means but it sure works better than before. I used to be one of those glum folks, snoozing her life away, like a horse about to be put out to pasture. Figuratively speaking. Kill me now. One of those women.

I know I’m one of those people other people talk about. What is she on, that’s what people wonder. Or ask outright, like just cause I’m chipper I haven’t suffered enough. She sure is smiley, she must be some spoiled bitch and she must have lived a charmed life. Listen, that is bullshit: have you ever met a spoiled bitch that smiles? The “bitch” part gives you a clue. The “bitch” part means no.

I know. I used to look at life like it was fucking my boyfriend and giving me the finger at the same time, like I haven’t got anything to offer and I might as well accept it. Like I might as well go under a bridge and shoot heroin and offer my body for a score and all the rest. But I didn’t go under a bridge ever, or jump off one. Instead I wake up uncomfortably early, and for that, well. I hear the whispers.

I might bake a cake before the sun rises. I might have a perfect ass because I run 3 miles every morning. I might get to work early and I might get a raise. I might have a beautiful smile because I practice it a lot. I might, but does that make me a demon?

She’s nuts. She must never relax. She’s probably never had an orgasm. She’s scary.

First: everyone is. Second: only when I’ve earned it. Third: I don’t just practice smiling. Finally: not as scary as a junkie whore living under a bridge.

I get up at 4:00 in the morning. I used to be a different woman, and I didn’t care for her. She didn’t have joy in her heart or light in her soul. And her hair was dull and her ass was wide. I remember this woman, and I feel bad. I feel bad I was that woman. She didn't have much to offer except: she offered me. She's who I am, and she's remembered every morning. In fact, every morning I wake up, like a chipper nutcase with a perfect ass and shiny hair, she gets put out to pasture. Figuratively speaking.