Wake Up and Seize Your Life: How to Stop Snoozing on Your Dreams

Conquer the snooze button habit and start living each morning with intentionality, productivity and purpose

Image created by the author using Ideogram

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Chapter 1: A Rude Awakening

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The ferocious pounding on the door rattled John from his deep slumber. He cracked open one drowsy eye to survey the aftermath of last night’s Netflix binge—an empty pizza box lay crumpled on the floor next to a graveyard of beer cans.

“I’m coming!” he yelled hoarsely, his voice sounding like sandpaper after the late-night snack coma.

John swung his feet onto the hardwood, silencing the blaring phone that had somehow transmogrified into a raucous jackhammer during the night. He shuffled to the door, squinting against the harsh morning light invading his man cave.

On the other side stood his best friend Mark, dressed for the day, with an expression that could curdle milk.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mark fumed, pushing past John into the dimly lit apartment. “Were you seriously still sleeping?”

“Calm down; I just hit snooze a couple of times.”

John’s voice trailed off as his eyes landed on the accusing red numbers of the digital clock—10:47 am. Shoot. He was nearly three hours late to help his buddy move into his new place.

Mark whirled at him, his eyes blazing like a raging wildfire.

“A couple of times? More like you slept through every freakin’ alarm!”

John ran a hand through his bedraggled hair, grimacing. To be fair, his body was probably just preserving its diminishing energy reserves after powering through Season 3 of the zombie apocalypse series from dusk ‘til dawn.

“I’m really sorry, man; I don’t know what happened,” he started his familiar refrain, sounding as flimsy as a height-challenged basketball player.

The Fallout of His Missed Commitment

But Mark wasn’t having any of his trademark excuses today.

“You don’t know what happened?” he echoed, his voice escalating to unprecedented decibel levels that could shatter windows.

“That’s just it; you never know what happened because you’re always obliviously sleepwalking through life!”

Yikes. John shrank back, feeling about as small as an ant under a magnifying glass. Mark’s searing words stung with the sizzling truth—dude did have a bad habit of prioritising snooze buttons over real responsibilities.

He opened his mouth to defend himself but quickly snapped it shut at the daggers shooting from Mark’s eyes. His friend stopped pacing and raked a frustrated hand through his chestnut locks.

“You know what? Just forget it,” Mark sighed, anger melting into soul-crushing disappointment. “I’ll get Angela to help me move instead.”

That hit John like a sucker punch to the gut—Angela was Mark’s notoriously brutal ex, who rivalled heavyweight boxers in strength. There was no mistaking the blatant message as loud and clear as a fireworks show:

My flakey ways had pushed my BFF to the brink.

“I really screwed this one up,” John thought, heartbeats thrumming like the march of an ant army through his veins.

As the door slammed behind Mark’s retreating figure, John collapsed onto the stained recliner in a cloud of dust and self-loathing thicker than pea soup fog.

Putting On a New Brave Face

Man, he was the worst. Determined to make amends, John set about getting ready with renewed vigour. He headed for the bathroom, flicking on the harsh overheads that illuminated every nook and cranny…

…including the grimy ring around the tub from approximately 765 days sans-scrubbing. His cleaning skills resembled those of a frat house bachelor—any delusions of being a smooth, crisp-living dude were shattered like a broken mirror whenever his eyes landed on that horror show.

John sighed and quickly brushed his teeth, dodging his haunting reflection like his life depended on it. Perhaps if he raced out now, he could catch Mark before Angela applied her Incredible-Hulk-level strength to his precious IKEA furniture.

But when he made for his bedroom closet, a pungent odour wafted out that nearly knocked him flat on his keister. His nostrils recoiled in fear of the rotten stench wafting from the swamp colony that appeared to be growing all over his clothes.

“Sweet Mother of Pearl,” John gagged, frantically pawing through the heaping piles of crumpled t-shirts, jeans, and socks with a grimace. There was not a single fresh outfit in sight.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. He quickly yanked on:

• A pair of well-worn jeans with a slightly disturbing mystery stain down one pant leg

• A t-shirt from college that might as well have been a midriff top given how shrunken it had become

• Mismatched socks featuring Venom’s terrifying mug on one foot and Pikachu’s adorable pout on the other

John stopped to evaluate his derelict ensemble in the mirror and cringed. This look was certifiably cringe-inducing, though perhaps a fitting reflection of his dishevelled life.

He grabbed his keys and phone, doing a bemused double take at the crack zigzagging across the screen that would make a tightrope walker jealous. When did that tragedy happen?

John mentally tallied up the cost to get a new phone... and maybe some adult responsibilities while he was at it.