The Absurdity of My Mornings to an Outsider

I am woken up long before I am ready to or want to by the terribly loud, unforgiving groaning of the alarm that is placed inches from my ear.  I dangerously climb unsteadily down from my warm, comfortable haven onto the cold, hard ground and stumble blindly through the dark to my desk.  Once I find my desk, I flip a switch that produces a too-bright glare so that I blink uncontrollably for a few seconds and am temporarily blinded.  After regaining my sight, I move through the dimness to my closet, tripping over the slippers that someone left in my path the night before, and begin to quickly thumb through the shirts that all appear to be the same in the shadows produced by the closet doors.  This makes it extremely difficult to find a shirt that will match the pants and shoes that I also manage to encounter in the semi-darkness, meaning that there is a good chance that my outfit will look strange and out of place today.  Once I put these articles on, I move to my desk, where I quickly paint my face with strange, colorful substances, some of a creamy texture and some powdery, knowing that I do not have enough time to apply these items carefully because the darkness  slowed my pace earlier as I moved to my closet.  After just a few minutes, I grab my books and the other necessary items and rush out the door, most likely forgetting an important item because it was invisible to me in the darkness.