Losing My Religion, Closing My Collection

Woke at 4:40 this morning, knew I wasn't getting back to sleep. The Sit Up With A Gasp hour just keeps arriving earlier and earlier. My need for an alarm clock lapsed a decade ago. Yeah, I know: age, diet, melatonin, CBD gummies, maybe cut back on the quad shot-in-the-dark frappaccinos while sliding into footie pajamas, etc. None of it works. All of it doesn't work. So I often lay there for a while wondering if a specific concern has pre-fired that day's synapses. Climate, virus, Ukraine? Family, vocation, dwindling basement cash pile? The latest heating, electrical, or plumbing failure I've yet to address? While it's true that I remained displeased and cranky at 4:48, at least by then I knew the reason: advertising brought to you by Zuckerberg brought to you by Meta. Bottom line, my subconscious needed to know why I'd been algorithmically targeted for this teal, knitted, retro-crime of a Mao/Hef sweater jacket. "Who am I?" (as Charlie Sheen once asked himself from his penthouse balcony while Darryl Hannah snored beneath their Basquiat triptych in "Wall Street") suddenly seemed a less important question than "Who do THEY think I am?" I mean, does the dude-model's grey beard contain a hidden message? Do his trousers carry pleated secrets from the summer of '88? Are the Faceless Navy, Turd Brown, Bubble Yum Purple, or Emasculating Salmon alternate color choices tailored specifically to my browsing history? Is there a single man on the face of the planet, from the Left Bank to downtown Mumbai, strolling around with a smirk and confident strut, trussed in a teal collar-popped knitted sweater blazer right this second, and since the answer is clearly no, why does Facebook think i'll be the first?

Got up, fed and ran the dog, made breakfast.
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Even my eggs tasted like ascot.