Friday, March 20, 2009

Insomniac's Theatre

One theory behind my recent heart issues relayed to me by doctor no. 1 in the walk-in clinic, is that I’m stressed out and don’t get enough sleep. You should have seen the look on her face when I told her I get an average of five to six hours of sleep a night. It was as if she believed I was now a zombie walking around hunting for brains and the reason my heart was trying to claw its way out of my body was obvious - I’m no longer a living human being.

I’d like to know who the hell gets eight hours of good sleep a night? I might be so lucky on the weekends, but it’s not technically good sleep since it’s usually a vodka and beer induced slumber. Plus, like I said, lady, I can’t sleep because my heart pounds which keeps me awake at night and I’ve also been a crappy sleeper since I left for college nearly eight years ago. What would you suggest I do? You make no sense, hooker.

Anyway, I took her advice anyway and have consciously tried to get more sleep, which involves me getting into bed earlier (sometimes) and therefore falling asleep earlier (yeah, pretty much never). It’s against my nature to do such a thing since I usually get my second wind around 10 or 10:30 p.m. and get into this manic state that makes me decide that it’s a perfect time to clean furiously, organize the coat closet or attempt to catch and shave my neighbor’s cat.

Then it seems all the odds are against me anyway. I’ll toss around and think about how cool it would be to be able to fly or to own a teleporter or what I would say if I came face-to-face with Octomom or Samuel Clemens. Sometimes I just wake up at 4 a.m. for no reason at all and go “Shit, shit, SHIT! WHY? I have to get up in three hours!” Which keeps me not wide awake, but in that weird in and out of sleep state where you have freakish dreams that you can’t separate from reality, which is SO MUCH WORSE than staring wide-eyed and pissy at the ceiling.

Also, my dog refuses to sleep at the foot of my bed or even just on the bed, but has decided to sleep ON TOP of me. He’s not very big, but it’s still unpleasant to try to sleep with half a Jack Russell on your hip. Plus he’s roughly 350 degrees, so the experience is equivalent to climbing into my fully pre-heated oven with a blanket and pillow for a snooze. As the night goes on, he takes up more and more of the bed because he can’t possibly sleep vertically, but must sleep horizontally and he gets heavier and more dead weight-ish as I try to push him back over. Then, every time I move, he thinks I’m awake and therefore MUST pet him immediately until the world ends, so he responds by shooting out his stick-like legs and punching me in the boob or the eye. ALWAYS the boob or the eye. Why do dogs do this? They are such DICKS.

Or how about last night when I was sleeping soundly while the boy watched TV next to me (the only person I know that is more night owl-ish than me, but can afford to be because he doesn’t have to work at the crack of dawn) when all of a sudden *Zzzzeeew* the somewhat familiar sound of all the electricity going out for several blocks. The sound of the TV suddenly snapping off stirred me first, but the sound of the boy going, “WHOOOOA! Babe, all the electricity just went out!” woke me up completely.

My cranky, why-the-fuck-did-you-wake-me-up-still-half-asleep-bitch self wanted to say, ‘I don’t caaaaare! I was sleeeeeeping like the rest of the free world at 2 a.m. on a weekday. Nobody else probably noticed except for you because they are ASLEEP!’ But my rational self, which I’m surprised even existed after being woken up from a deep sleep at 2 a.m., said, “well, I guess you’ll have to go to sleep now because there’s nothing else to do.”

He then proceeded to bucking bronco around my apartment – up and down, outside then back inside – “It’s out for long way!” – down then back up again, into the bathroom, back down again, edge of the bed...I’m thinking, honey, I love you but I’m going to fucking kill you right now. Less talky and walky, more sleepy.

Then he opened his laptop, remembered the Internet would also be out and started surfing around on his phone instead. “God, this reminds me of when we had to evacuate,” he said.

Ah ha! He had to evacuate from New Orleans with his family about six months ago when Hurricane Ike came through and spent a week in a hotel in Mississippi that also didn’t have electricity for most of their stay, along with other interesting occurrences, which probably explains why he was so wiggly at the moment.

“Hold on, I just have to make sure this isn’t some sort of terrorist attack,” he said halfway joking.”

‘OH FUCK. Wait, this could totally be a terrorist attack!’ I thought. Keep in mind that I was in an irrational, pissy, just unwillingly ripped from a deep sleep, state of mind. I’m surprised I even remember any of this.

Then he starts messing with me since he knows I’m a pansy and won’t watch scary movies anymore because I can’t sleep after watching them.

“(tightening the drawstring on his pajama pants while rolling over to go to sleep) I have to make sure my pants are on tight in case I have to run away. If a guy with an axe comes in here, you’re on your own.”

‘What? WHAT?! A guy with an axe! Oh god, he’s in my apartment! What’s that noise?! FUCK!’ My tweaked out mind screams.

“Shut up.” I said.

“I’m scared,” he said, still fucking with me. “Not really of guys with axes, but more of supernatural stuff.”

‘GHOSTS! Why’d you have to bring up ghosts? Now they’re all pissed because you’re talking about them and I can feel them flying around my apartment and hovering above my bed. Shit. Fuck!’ Neurotic, sleepy mind screams again.

“Shut up. You’re an ass,” I said.

So, I laid there, once a blissfully sleeping woman, now a wide-eyed 6-year-old afraid of the dark and axe murderers and ghosts and terrorists with only the dead quiet of a dark neighborhood around me, the faint whistle of a distant train from time to time and the sound of my digestive system processing my dinner to keep me company.

Oh and lets not forget about my heart doing back flips and it becoming increasingly sweltering in my room. Just when I thought ‘I am SUFFOCATING in here and I’m going to DIE!’ *Zzzoooop* the TV suddenly snapped back on, all things scary disappeared, I turned back into a 25-year-old grown adult again and fell back to sleep.

This is why I love naps.


Prosy said...

My dogs always stand right on top of my bladder in the morning. Or the boobs.

BTW- I always call my nurses 'hooker' too. They're just asking for it with the little outfits.

Kate said...

I never told you this when we were living together, but I totally would've run screaming had an axe murderer busted into our apartment...sorry, man.

Kurt said...

That's one HOT dog! (I'll be here all week! Don't forget to tip your wait staff!)

I'm sorry.


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