Hemingway Was Just A Mean Drunk

A couple of weeks ago my boss hosted a class, the kind of class where you get a test at the end and I got so excited I clapped my hands for joy. And if you think I'm kidding then you haven't been paying attention 'tall, now have you?

So at the end of the class we all filed diligently out of the conference room, none so focused upon finishing that test in a precise and timely manner than yours truly. Blame it on The Sickness, the one that involves methodically eating wee boxes of tic tacs and hitting all the radio preset buttons in a row, even if I've found a song in which I'd like my ears to partake. This sickness extends to test taking as well and it's really just best if you not come between me, my pen and my paper because I'll be slapped upside the head and called Billy Bob before I let someone beat me.

It's not necessarily that I don't want people to beat me it's just that I don't want to be last, or second to last or within spitting distance of last. If everyone gets the answers right then kudos to us all but should it appear that everyone gets it but ME, well then, we've got a verified flashback to 7th grade Algebra and the many, many hours I spent threatening to disembowel my father because his explanations were coming from the mind of a 45-year-old engineer who happens to think numbers are the coolest while I just wanted him to tell me the answer already so I could go finish The Old Man and the Freaking Sea.

So when I watched everyone turning in their tests that morning I could feel my neck start to get itchy and my blood pressure start to rise because these people were not only turning in their tests before I'd made it to question two, they weren't even stressed about it and then here's me, dropping f-bombs like rabbit pellets because I'm convinced I've got every question wrong and my boss just cannot know that I'm a total reject.

And that's basically what it boils down to: Not being the throwback DKNY sweater that gets sent to TJ Maxx to languish in the half-off bin.

All of this drivel has been the world's longest lead-in to my continued inability to go to sleep. I mean, I know how sleep works. I know all about the different stages and the REM and the right amount of hours and the good bedtime habits. I know I shouldn't eat right before bed or watch lots of television or drink too much or set the neighborhood cats on fire because that's totally bad karma. So if I understand all about the process and I see everyone around me being able to do it normally, at least a majority of the time, you can bet your collection of Ninja Turtles that it's going to piss me off. Someone's doing something way better than me and this isn't like someone is a wicked good soccer player and I'm just regular old me because I have no desire to be a wicked good soccer player so being regular old me isn't an issue. But hearing someone talking about sleeping a whole night through is like telling the girl who placed 19th out of 20 in the Miss Arkansas pageant that what really counts is her good personality when we all know damn good and well that the swimsuit competition is way more important.

You're probably not following my reasoning on that one and to be honest, I'm probably not either but the cool thing about not sleeping is that you get to blame nonsensical analogies on The Insomnia.

And just because I cannot have anyone thinking I got the questions on that test wrong, I totally won the candy bar my boss dangled in front of us as a reward for being the first to finish with all the correct answers.