You Can Bypass This One If You Want

I wish there was a funny way to say I wasn’t sleeping, that I looked upon the sleeplessness as an exercise in self-awareness or that I found it endearing in a neurotic or mildly wacky kind of way. As in, “That girl looks like she’s not sleeping, WHAT A CHARACTER, THAT ONE.” or “Though obviously lacking in the REM category, BET SHE’S A TOTAL LAUGH.”

I’ve held off mentioning anything that might intimate my lack of voluntary and horizontal slumber because really, who wants to read about the bleary-eyed girl who sits at her desk, hallucinating tiny spiders marching in a line against the cubicle wall. In my vast and uber intelligent opinion, folks want to read about small men who live in trees (David the Gnome!) and make lamps out of human skin or perhaps Rodents Of Unusual Size who live in fanciful forests made of licorice and lollipops and swim in rivers of chocolate with pretty red beating hearts in lieu of shiny maraschino cherries. Obviously I’m exaggerating the scariness that the sleeplessness has wrought upon my aching body OR AM I. In truth I got out of bed this morning, quite intent on avoiding the bloody beating hearts adorning my wooden floor. And even though, logically, I can tell you that THERE ARE NO BLOODY BEATING HEARTS ON MY WOODEN FLOOR, in the haze of my sleep-deprived waking coma I was most certainly afraid of stepping on one. And slipping to my death. Because I am eternally afraid of slipping. On flat ground, on stairs, on linoleum TAKE YOUR PICK. But rest assured that those bloody beating hearts were a detriment to my health by way of ending up ass first on the unrelenting oak of my floor.

Before you submit suggestions please know that I have tried every single godamned one of them. Earplugs, chamomile tea, yoga, nasty ass warm milk, exercise, reading, not reading, television, no television I HAVE TRIED THEM ALL. I have waking dreams at weird times of the day, most involving subjects that normal people do not entertain. There’s no time frame for the night drama that I can pin down, either. It didn’t start with Matthew’s incarceration for drunk jogging, nor did it start with my campaign for My Mother To Get A Fucking Divorce. Please note that I can never remember sleeping WELL, but I can’t remember when the actual NOT SLEEPING went into full effect.

All I can tell you is that the NOT SLEEPING is in full swing for the ??? month in a row, much to the chagrin of my burning eye holes.

And so, as a final touch, to everyone who has ever bitched me out for leaving a party early because I was tired or declined an invitation to a night out because I was tired or gave me the look that implied that I am a sorry ass individual indeed because I so blatantly throw away my chances to meet and greet with the opposite sex because I was tired: BACK OFF. 1) I really am that tired 2) I REALLY AM THAT TIRED and 3) Did you read the second paragraph? Did you? Because if you did then it should be perfectly clear that I most certainly do not need to fucking meet and greet with the opposite sex. If people with herpes can be kind enough to bag it up to prevent the floodgates from opening on their oozing genital sores, passing it onto the unsuspecting world at large then I can be kind enough to prevent the world from having to interact with my neurotic sleep deprived eccentricities.

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