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| gorilla getting his jimmies rustled by an alarm clock |
For my birthday, my Aunt Linda (die-hard Keeping Up with the Kardashians superfan who still has a shrine to the 2016 earring-in-the-ocean episode) decided I didn’t need another pair of socks or a gift card. Nope. She wrapped up the holy grail: the limited-edition Kim Kardashian Motivational Alarm Clock™, complete with Swarovski “RISE AND GRIND, B*TCH” lettering and a voice chip loaded with pure, unfiltered Kim energy.
She handed it to me at the family dinner like she’d just cured world hunger. “Happy birthday, sweetie! Kim is literally the blueprint for success. This will get you out of that depressing little 9-to-5 rut!” I smiled, hugged her, and prayed it was one of those joke gifts that never actually works.
It worked. Oh, it worked.
The next morning at 7:00 a.m. sharp, my sad studio apartment lit up like a SKIMS pop-up store. Kim’s voice—husky, slightly nasal, zero tolerance for weakness—boomed from the nightstand:
“Get your f*cking ass up and work!”
I froze under the covers. The digital Kim stared down at me with that signature arched brow, lashes so long they needed their own area code.
I hit snooze.
Big. Mistake.
The volume cranked and her sisters joined in like a demonic choir: “Work, b*tch, work, b*tch!”
Kim wasn’t done. Full boss-babe sermon mode activated:
“You think I built an empire by hitting snooze? No. I woke up, I worked, I cried in my Rolls-Royce, then I worked some more. Now get your f*cking ass up and work.”
I dragged myself to the bathroom while she kept going, now on wheels (yes, it rolls—because of course it does), following me like a judgmental personal trainer.
“Stop scrolling, start scrolling through emails! You’re not launching a billion-dollar contour line by staying in bed, honey!”
Breakfast tasted like cardboard and quiet regret. The clock parked itself by the coffee maker and delivered career advice between my sad spoonfuls of cereal:
“Balance? I don’t know her. You want balance? Buy my shapewear. Now get your fucking ass up and work.”
By the time I stumbled into the office at 8:47, tie crooked and soul in a body bag, my boss said the usual “Morning, champ.” I almost whispered back, “Does this look like the face of a woman who owns a private jet? No. This is the face of a man who just got professionally roasted by a birthday gift.”
Every single day since my birthday has been the same glamorous nightmare. I’ve started negotiating with the damn thing like it’s a hostage situation.
“Kim, please, five more minutes.”
“Get your f*cking ass up and work.”
“I’ll buy the new SKIMS drop, I swear.”
“Get. Your. F*cking. Ass. Up. And. WORK.”
Best birthday gift ever.
She handed it to me at the family dinner like she’d just cured world hunger. “Happy birthday, sweetie! Kim is literally the blueprint for success. This will get you out of that depressing little 9-to-5 rut!” I smiled, hugged her, and prayed it was one of those joke gifts that never actually works.
It worked. Oh, it worked.
The next morning at 7:00 a.m. sharp, my sad studio apartment lit up like a SKIMS pop-up store. Kim’s voice—husky, slightly nasal, zero tolerance for weakness—boomed from the nightstand:
“Get your f*cking ass up and work!”
I froze under the covers. The digital Kim stared down at me with that signature arched brow, lashes so long they needed their own area code.
I hit snooze.
Big. Mistake.
The volume cranked and her sisters joined in like a demonic choir: “Work, b*tch, work, b*tch!”
Kim wasn’t done. Full boss-babe sermon mode activated:
“You think I built an empire by hitting snooze? No. I woke up, I worked, I cried in my Rolls-Royce, then I worked some more. Now get your f*cking ass up and work.”
I dragged myself to the bathroom while she kept going, now on wheels (yes, it rolls—because of course it does), following me like a judgmental personal trainer.
“Stop scrolling, start scrolling through emails! You’re not launching a billion-dollar contour line by staying in bed, honey!”
Breakfast tasted like cardboard and quiet regret. The clock parked itself by the coffee maker and delivered career advice between my sad spoonfuls of cereal:
“Balance? I don’t know her. You want balance? Buy my shapewear. Now get your fucking ass up and work.”
By the time I stumbled into the office at 8:47, tie crooked and soul in a body bag, my boss said the usual “Morning, champ.” I almost whispered back, “Does this look like the face of a woman who owns a private jet? No. This is the face of a man who just got professionally roasted by a birthday gift.”
Every single day since my birthday has been the same glamorous nightmare. I’ve started negotiating with the damn thing like it’s a hostage situation.
“Kim, please, five more minutes.”
“Get your f*cking ass up and work.”
“I’ll buy the new SKIMS drop, I swear.”
“Get. Your. F*cking. Ass. Up. And. WORK.”
Best birthday gift ever.
