He gets up early. It's 4:20. He has to pee and the lyric of some Kinks tune is running mercilessly through his head. Even before he thinks about being fully awake, he thinks about a creating survey:
--Songs you wake up singing.
--Current Favorite Tune.
--Song You're Compelled To Sing In The Shower. (Really, Not The Tune You Think You Like Best, But The One You Actually Sing Most Often)
--Song You Most Believe In.
--Songs That Are Always Stuck In Your Head, Whether Anyone Suggests Them Or Not.
--Song You Most Hate To Have Stuck In Your Head.
--Sticky Songs You Pass Along To Everyone Else Unintentionally.
--The Song That Plays Itself Over And Over Way Deep Down Inside Your Brain So Constantly You’re Not Even Aware Of It Anymore.
This last category really intrigues him, and he sits for the longest silent time at his desk, ignoring the coffee, running through the playlist, trying not to let anything attach itself too permanently, trying to follow the slightest echo back to its origin, in search of that most-unconscious, ferociously sticky tune. This morning, he worries that it might be I Feel Pretty from West Side Story. He cringes at the thought because he wants it to be The Left Banke’s Walk Away Renee or maybe The Stones’ Sympathy for the Devil.
By the time he’s created the survey questions in his mind and is busy trying to fill in the blanks, he’s already moved on to what the morning has in store for him at work. He has to get to work by nine. He's well-respected there, and nobody can hear his constant internal concert.
This is how it is for him every day: his head’s too small, the coffee’s no particular help one way or the other, and he sits at the keyboard in the morning, early, wishing he didn’t feel so pretty, oh so pretty; wishing he didn't feel so pretty and witty and bright.