Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Sleep Is For Pussies

So it is 12:15 am on Wednesday morning, and once again I am unable to sleep. This happens a lot. I am not sure if it is a physical or psychological problem, but it is a problem nonetheless. You see, when I am unable to sleep, I am unable to function, and if I can not function, I am useless. Actually, I’m pretty useless anyway, but not having slept recently gives me an excuse that is generally acceptable in society as a valid reason for being a complete and total fuck-up for the span of, say, 12 hours. The problem is they end up expecting you not to fuck up the next day, and that’s where it gets tricky, especially if you have not slept the night before, once again. That excuse only lasts for so long before someone finally realizes that the reason you suck at life is not due to lack of sleep but is in fact due to your ability to fuck up as if it were some super power granted to you by those that live in distant universes we only hear of in comic books and Star Trek movies. Where was I? Oh yeah, not sleeping.

Generally one could argue that there are ways to cure your inability to sleep, but I am almost certain that they are all bullshit. Warm milk doesn’t make you sleepy; it just tastes worse than cold milk, which in itself is not very tasty. There is also a rumor that I have heard in some circles of society that having sex will generally wear your body out (if the sex is good) and actually make you fall asleep within a few scant minutes (if the sex is really good or really bad). The problem with this is that the circle I was just speaking of is usually occupied by those who sleep next to someone on a nightly basis, usually of the opposite sex but I am sure it works both ways.

If you ask one certain twenty five year old male living in Antelope, he will say that the best way to fall asleep is by lying down while being completely inebriated, but he is almost certainly lying. Even drunk I can’t seem to sleep more than a few hours. So what do I do? Not a damn thing. I turn on my laptop, type a couple paragraphs of unstructured gibberish and cynical nonsense until I feel like I have earned my right to sleep, as if my body requires some form of intellectual sacrifice before it will allow my nerves and brainwaves to shut down for a few hours and give my body time to regenerate. My body may not let me sleep, but at least we have a comfortable understanding as to why, even if it is kind of being a prick, seeing as how I have to work in five hours, but that’s part of the give and take that comes with a two way relationship with your earthly vessel. My body hates me, and when I die I am sure it won’t be missed, at least not by me.

Hey there fancy pants

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