Absurdist Awakening

Harold Finch was not the kind of man who questioned reality. He took things as they were: coffee should be hot, socks should match, and gravity should remain consistently downward. These were simple truths.

So when he woke up one morning and discovered that his alarm clock had called in sick, he was understandably confused.

It wasn’t broken—it had left a tiny handwritten note on his nightstand:

Dear Harold,

I’m taking a mental health day. The constant ticking and buzzing has taken a toll on my well-being. Please respect my boundaries.

Sincerely, Your Alarm Clock

Harold rubbed his eyes. That was… odd. But fine. Maybe he had just imagined it. He grabbed his phone to check the time, only to find that his phone had developed stage fright. Instead of displaying the time, the screen said:

"Look, I don’t think I can do this anymore. Everyone stares at me all day. It’s exhausting."

Harold frowned. "This is ridiculous."

His phone trembled slightly in his hand. "You think I don’t have feelings? You drop me, overcharge me, and ask me to show you the time at least 47 times a day. I need a break."

Harold sighed and rolled out of bed—literally. His bed had repositioned itself at a 45-degree angle overnight, and he tumbled unceremoniously onto the floor.

As he groaned and pushed himself up, he noticed something else odd. His carpet was now… grass. His entire bedroom had turned into a small, overgrown field with a single confused cow standing near his dresser.

The cow blinked at him.

Harold blinked back.

No. No, he was not doing this today. He had a meeting at work, and he wasn’t about to let sudden indoor agriculture stop him.

He staggered into his bathroom, only to find his mirror was now an older version of himself. The reflection-Harold squinted and muttered, "You could’ve done more with your life."

Harold scowled. "Not now."

"Just saying, maybe learn French. Or take up painting. Do you even remember the last time you danced?"

Harold ignored his judgmental doppelgänger and grabbed his toothbrush—only to have it recoil in horror.

"Absolutely not," it squeaked. *"Do you even know where I go every day? I have seen things, Harold. Dark things."

Harold groaned. "You're literally designed for this."

"That doesn’t make it right!"

Defeated, he splashed his face with water and stumbled into the kitchen, hoping at least one appliance was still functional. Unfortunately, his coffee maker had turned into an espresso machine with a thick Italian accent.

"Harold, my friend," it purred. "You do not deserve the bitter poison you call coffee. Today, I make-a you something better."

The machine then proceeded to make a cappuccino—but not just any cappuccino. It was topped with an intricate foam portrait of Harold’s childhood dog, Mr. Wiggles. Harold stared at it, dumbfounded.

His toaster, meanwhile, had become extremely aggressive and was launching slices of bread across the room at speeds that suggested deep-seated anger issues.

Harold ducked, grabbed a semi-intact slice, and made for the front door. He didn’t care anymore. He just needed to get to work.

The moment he stepped outside, he realized things had escalated further. The sidewalk had turned into a conveyor belt running in the wrong direction. Pedestrians were sliding backward, flailing helplessly as they attempted to reach their destinations.

The mailman floated by, looking deeply concerned. "Good morning, Mr. Finch! Terrible weather for defying the laws of physics, isn’t it?"

Harold tried stepping forward, only for the sidewalk to push him three steps back. He looked up. The sky was now… plaid. Bright red and blue plaid, like an unfortunate picnic blanket stretched across the heavens.

"Oh, for crying out loud," Harold muttered.

Just then, a pigeon wearing sunglasses landed on his shoulder.

"Listen, man," the pigeon said in a suspiciously cool voice, "I don’t think this is gonna be your day. Maybe call in sick?"

Harold exhaled sharply through his nose. "I *can’t* call in sick. My phone refuses to function, my alarm clock has unionized, and my mirror is giving me life advice. I just need to get to work."

"Okay, okay, chill," the pigeon said, adjusting its sunglasses. "But if I were you, I’d take a minute to ask myself—do I really need to go to work today? Or is work just another way of tricking yourself into thinking you have control?"

Harold narrowed his eyes. "Are you seriously philosophizing at me right now?"

"Hey, I’m just a bird, man," the pigeon said, shrugging its tiny wings. "But also—yes."

Harold opened his mouth to argue, but then he realized something. He was standing on a sentient sidewalk, drinking an unsolicited cappuccino, talking to an existentialist pigeon while the sky screamed fashion disaster*.

Maybe—just maybe—he did need a day off.

He turned around and walked back inside, the conveyor belt helpfully reversing itself just for him. The moment he shut his door, everything snapped back to normal.

His alarm clock was back in place. His floor was just a floor. The mirror no longer judged him, and the toaster hummed a contented tune. Even the espresso machine had vanished.

Harold stared for a long moment, then climbed back into bed.

He would deal with reality tomorrow.