O What a Beautiful Morning

I hate getting up in the dark every morning. It’s the one thing I dread with the coming of every winter - my pet hate of the season. I feel like I am being robbed of precious sleep hours, taken advantage of. Violated.
The thing I despise even more than waking in the dark though, is being woken by the blinding ceiling light, which some concerned soul decides to use to “help you wake up”. You see, there are two kinds of people in this world of ours:

TYPE 1: These are the people that can wake up at the crack of sparrow fart, alert, bright-eyed, bushy tailed, and kompis mentis (sic) , looking like they have just had a fabulous nights rest, and full body massage. They are able to hold a full conversation. None of their clothes are on inside out. Their socks even match. These are the people who look all perky at breakfast. These people were smurfs in their former lives. Possibly Possums.

TYPE 2: The rest of human civilization. We need a cup of coffee and some quiet time until we can speak intelligently. TYPE 2’s secretly despise TYPE 1’s. Leave us alone until 11am, unless you are holding coffee or chocolate. Or both.

Its when TYPE 1’s take it upon themselves to help you with your morning waking that relationships really take strain. They use various techniques to help you up in the morning, ranging from barely tolerable to homicide.
One the barely tolerable side of the scale, there is breakfast in bed. Chocolate and coffee. Perhaps a gentle nudge to let you know it’s arrived.  Perhaps some soothing music.
On the homicidal side, there is the light switch, which is flicked on with what I can only describe as TYPE 1 glee.
The switch not only floods your cozy dark room with the light of 1000 football stadium spotlights, but also initiates the rage of a nuclear bomb. It is accompanied with slitty eyes and the feeling of being born into the world for the first time. Only this time you are wearing pajamas and you have stubble. It’s not a pretty sight.

TYPE 2 reactions can vary.
Some TYPE 2’s stagger all over the place like inebriated hobos, desperately groping at the wall where they think the light switch was yesterday. Others scream in profane rage, albeit from under a blanket. Great quilted, profane humps.  
Some have the fortune of having some blunt object nearby which they can throw. The object NEVER makes contact with the TYPE 1, who by this stage is whistling a little ditty from the Sound of Music down the passage. It usually deflects off a wall and occasionally hits a wayward pet or worse, you.

These my friends, are the trials and tribulations of us fellow TYPE 2’s. Which one are you? How have you dealt with your TYPE 1’s? Pesticides? Fungicides? They just keep coming. HELP!