Phew, for a minute there, I lost myself

My eyes refused to open this morning at the designated time dictated by society. I am conscious, but in no mood to present myself to the my chopped up portion of world. And thus, I allow nature and time -- not artificial clocks -- full interaction with my sleeping/waking waves.
When called upon, I arise, and shamble into the kitchen to prepare a quaint breaky. I catch my haggard reflection in the frying pan and become bored. Languidly, I return to my bedroom to collect Leon with musical intentions. I pour my eggs symbolically on the fryer, and they sizzle and hiss in ecstasy -- The Acorn are best served hot. "Glory Hope Mountain" -- folksy stuff, sprinkled with spasmodic computer beeps -- is rising out of the kitchen alongside the delectable whiffs of my dynamic omelet. This brief bliss is interrupted by a dystopian-toast-burn. I sigh deeply and curse this ominous foreshadow.
Nanny enters the kitchen. Salutations, salutations. He is keen this morning: he notes my stripped shirt is inside out. "Zeut." (I'm distraught not because my shirt is inside out. Rather, the piercing eyes of the world are returning). Further, he inquires, "What is this? He just sang: 'I bit your tongue so hard, and now I can taste your blood'". Ah! Clearly Hundurian romanticism!
Now Steve saunters into my once serene bubble and moans, "Your subpar music is disturbing me." I flip my colourful omelet onto a piece of charcoal and sardonically apologize that I'm not playing Hilary Duff or Hillsong United. He likely calls me a frigger. I stumble for orange juice and tell him how I'll blog about this ruptured morning.