Before 9 AM

I live in an apartment with three other people, men to be precise. I have my own bedroom, my own space where I have all my show posters on the wall, my beloved blankets on the bed, and my music frequently, gently bouncing off the walls. However, true alone time is uncommon.

At any given time, I can either hear the bass of Jeff's music thudding against my north wall, the rapid gunfire from Steve playing Halo 3 drifting under my door, or the strains of Dom playing the guitar on the balcony through my permanently stuck open window. However, the time before 9 AM is my time, when my boys are asleep and, if not for the sounds of early morning traffic, I would feel like the last person on Earth.

I set my alarm for 7 AM every morning, with the understanding that I will get up and cross the room to the phone - my meager effort at forcing myself to get up by placing my alarm across the room is useless in practice - to reset it for 7:15. Then, if I haven't woken up too many times the night before from the neighbor's pounding techno or my own desperate thirst, I grab my iPod, tie my apartment key to my shoe, and head out for my run.

I'd never been much for running. As my good friend Jeff said (not roommate Jeff), a person shouldn't run unless he's being chased. He hates running with a passion and was as close to mortified as it's possible for him to be when I found out he ran on a treadmill. Which I think counts as running no matter what he says.

But when I moved to DeKalb, I had no friends, no idea of the layout of the town, and a determination to just do well in school long enough to get out of this corn-surrounded hellhole. Without theatre, my life was significantly more hollow, and I wondered about all those testaments that I loved theatre but couldn't go into it as a profession. Could I live without the constant anticipation of the next audition, the callback, first day of rehearsal, opening night, closing night? Would it be possible to breathe knowing my evenings would be full of studying rather than rehearsal, that I may never have to memorize lines again, do warm-up activities or feel the strongest emotions possible in a human being?

To get rid of that strange ache in my stomach and to knock off the thirteen pounds the height-to-weight ratio chart said I should as a good representative of the 5'1" people, I started running. My brother James had been a runner for the first three years of high school and only quit when the running coach/health teacher that had been creepy to all of the girls turned out to be an asshole to all of the guys as well. My best friend Abby (No, don't think about Abby, it'll only remind you how far away she is) swore by running. So I gave it a shot.

So every morning, I run 2.5 miles (I traced my path in my car) and end up back at the still-silent apartment to enjoy full run of the shower. After participating in the passive aggressive fight I currently have going with my roommate Jeff over the location of the shower head, I slink under the warm spray and pretend I'm under a warm waterfall somewhere in the tropics where there's no fucking corn.

After a shower, it's back to my room to pack my bag with the day's classes - a light bag for Monday, Wednesday and Friday, a medium bag for Thursdays, and a holy crap that's heavy bag for Tuesdays. This time is also when I check out my usual morning sites - CNN.com, Penny Arcade, Ctrl+Alt+Del, the infamous Facebook, Fark.com, and MSN.com - and talk online to my friend Mandy in France. The time difference makes trying to catch each other pretty difficult, but my time before 9 AM serves me well.

The phrase is overused, I think, but appropriate in this context. Early morning hours are "me" time. It's not like I sit at my poetry book and pour out my soul, but I would be lying if I didn't say I lie in bed a while and reflect, dampening my pillow with my cold, wet hair. For example, I had an absolutely fantastic day yesterday. I got a 98 on my Hearing Science test, an exam I thought I was doomed to get a C on; my yellow Chucks came in the mail, bringing me another step closer to completing the collection; my washer was fixed, ending a stint of dressing in too-formal-for-classwear; I was able to watch House, one of the last few decent shows on TV; and there were still pickles in the fridge with my name on them. Sure, it would have been nice if the boyfriend had called, but one cannot have everything or one will become a spoiled little princess. Or more of a spoiled princess, as the case may be.

At about this time, I look over notes for upcoming tests and check to see if I've printed out the day's lectures. It's getting close to the time where I'll hear Jeff's alarm through these lovely, paper-thin walls, and I shall no longer be empress of my own domain.

As I descend the throne, I throw on my sweatshirt, untie my keys from my running shoes and reattach it to the monstrosity that is my keyring, and head out the door to greet my people.