Hefler's Turn

My cat's name is Oprah Winfrey. She is a domestic short hair, or so the vet tells me. She is healthy and smart and sleeps on the pillow next to my pillow at night when I sleep. Sometimes Oprah Winfrey will wake me up with her purrs, but I don't mind. I'll say, "Oprah Winfrey, what are you talking about?" She won't answer me, but she will stop her purrs. She will yawn, which causes me to yawn, which causes me to think how strange it is that my cat's yawn makes me yawn. "Oprah Winfrey," I will say, "You're so crazy."

I like to wake up at night. I like to look at the clock and see that I still have three more hours of sleep, or maybe four. I like that. I like to think about that. How I wish time would just stop right there and I could take that feeling and hold onto that feeling and go with that feeling to heaven or wherever the next stop is. I would like that. I would like to be put in that position, late at night, say around 2:30 or 3:00 in the morning.

The clock always goes off at six. This kills me. Mornings always kills me. I have probably died over three thousand times because of mornings. I have never really thought about this. I am not sure who I should report this to or how to write it down. I will have to look into this later this afternoon.

Oprah Winfrey doesn't have a job. At least she doesn't have a job where she gets paid. If Oprah Winfrey talked, I bet she would tell me her job was to keep the bed warm, because that is what she does. She keeps the bed warm while I am away at work all day. Before I leave in the morning I tell Oprah Winfrey that I will be back later. She stares at me but doesn't say anything. She doesn't even yawn. I walk out of the apartment cursing Oprah Winfrey because I am so jealous of her. She is not even two years old, yet she is retired and collecting checks and free food and fresh water. Oprah Winfrey should be grateful. Deep down I hope she is.