That's me, leaning sloppily against the cold metal pole of the Q train every morning. My eyes are closed and it's all I can do to keep my tongue sealed inside my lips. I am not drooling, but I'm close. "This is the last stop on the uptown Q train. This is the last stop on the Q." I use the pole to pull myself up and stagger out onto the platform so that I can go to work and sit there dazed in my cubicle until I have to break down and buy a Red Bull.
This is a shitty existence, I think. But the thought goes away.
It's been like this for years now. Eyeballs wobbling in my classes. Taking unfortunate naps in less fortunate places. I have a relationship with sleep that is like the one a pushover father might have with a red-headed brat of a son, or like the one an old lady might have with a recalcitrant kitty. Whenever I want to sleep, I can't sleep. Whenever I don't want to sleep or can't afford to sleep, I can't help but sleep. There's something childishly maddening about it. Like this is my payback for being an only child. Like there was no one to arbitrarily aggravate me as a kid, so now I have this curse. Like sleep is my little brother.
And I'm just about ready to beat the shit out of him.
Honestly, I get my best sleep between 6:50 and 7:00. (My alarm goes off at 6:50.) If i don't have any reason to get up early the next day, I can fall asleep anytime I want. But if I have to get up early and say to myself, shite, I really need to get some sleep tonight, I flop all night like a goddamn fish on a wet dock. I sweat yellow stains into my pillow. I tear the sheets off my mattress. I think about things I should've said that would've been funny in obscure situations, then I rehearse them for the next time I might be put in that situation.
I'm thinking about drugs. I'm thinking hard about drugs. And now that I have medical benefits, I wouldn't even have to pay that much for them. It's tempting. I watch those Lunesta commercials with the moon and the little boy sitting on it as if it were a papasan, fishing for bright little worlds. And they show the formerly miserable and cadaveresque guy sleeping inside next to his semi-attractive wife. I'm probably mixing up my commercials. But anyway, WHY NOT ME?
I miss my dreams. They were so weird and wonderful. I remember once last weekend I was being repeatedly attacked by easily defeatable robots. That ruled. Too bad it happened from 11:00 AM to 2:00 PM on a sun-shiny day in Brooklyn. What a waste. I'm giving my sleep pattern a D- ...and a swollen lip next time I see that little twerp.
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