U.G.S.

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A typical spring morning, I’ve relocated from bed to desk and adjusted my Pandora station to accommodate this new state of Awake, if only by conventional terms and technically “open” eyes.  The page reloads and Chet Faker’s Gold interrupts a sleepy Elliot Smith.  Four beats drop, the riff begins, and well-placed hand claps tickle my rib cage, which has instinctually started isolating to the right.  By the time the vocals come in my shoulders are in full wave and my neck is loosening up.  It’s the middle of the first verse and I’m rolling my wrists.  The chorus dives down into my gut and I’m bouncing in my seat now, arms streaming overhead like inflatable-arm-waving-tube-man and my head rolls back.  Ah, whattayaknow, my ceiling fan is beige.  Mundane observations, a special side effect of Uncontrollable Groove Syndrome.

PS, my desk spot is right next to a front-facing window to the outside world.  I only hope my neighbors across the street have caught on to these morning desk dances.  Bonus points if they’ve ever joined in between bites of bagel.

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