Greetings, WYMOP readers!
Some of you may be aware that I don't usually sleep all that much. Sometimes, though, I do try to get a little more shuteye; it just doesn't usually work very well. The following is some of what was running through my head while I was trying to get an extra hour in this past Sunday morning. It's not all of what I was thinking―I wasn't taking notes or anything―but I think I have most of the high points.
Ready? Welcome to my mind.
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Okay. The clock says it’s 4:03 am, but the alarm’s set for 5:00. I mean, I have stuff to do, but I was trying to sleep in, at least a little. I can get back to sleep for another hour, right? That’d be a good thing, right?
I wouldn’t feel like I had so much to do this morning if I’d just gotten some done last night. Christ, why did I watch the ending—okay, the last hour and ten minutes—of Let The Right One In again, instead of working? I just watched the damned thing, well, most of it . . . okay the last hour, I think, the night before. Shit, has Right One turned into one of those films I have to watch the end of, no matter where or when I walk in on them, like The Princess Bride, or The Highlander? I mean, it is a fantastic vampire movie, but because it’s more about Oskar than Eli, and—
No, no, don’t do that. I’m trying to go back to sleep. Sleep, sleep, sleep. Sheep, sheep, sheep. Counting sheep. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven—and, God, just don’t think about Christmas.
Yeah, Christmas. Wheee . . .
What was that blog post I read the other day about people not really hating Christmas? That stressing about the season is kind of bullshit because everyone’s just naturally good at buying gifts? Yeah, talk about bullshit. And everyone’s really friendly and confident, and there’s no way social anxiety—shit, I hate labels like that, and here I am using one—shyness, or not being a people person, or whatever you want to call it, could translate into freaking out over whether someone’s going to like what you give them, or worrying that you’re going to look stupid, even to your own family, or—
What’s that sound? Is that . . . is that my heartbeat? Holy shot of adrenaline, Batman, that’s beating pretty hard there. This isn’t the way to get back to sleep. Where did all those sheep run off to? Ha-ha. All right, nestle into the pillow like so, adjust the legs like so, and the arms . . . Comfy? Yep. Okay, the sheep are gone—how about counting backward? One thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine, nine hundred ninety-eight—
I mean at least I wasn’t watching Clowntergeist again. The story and writing in Right One are beautiful, but Clowntergeist is just . . . the best thing about that film is the kids. Kids, ha! They’re probably in their twenties. God I feel old.
You think God feels old?
Okay, no, can’t do this to myself. I haven’t finished writing the Clowntergeist review because I actually get angry whenever I start going over it, and that’s not going to help me sleep. It’s like the old corner guy said in that boxing movie with Cuba Gooding Junior and Brian Dennehy and that kid from Twin Peaks. . . what was it called? Gladiator? “Anger is the enemy.” Yeah, the enemy. I can do this. I just have to relax. Relax. Think of something relaxing. Picture a pretty field, with tall grass, and goldenrod . . . okay, I wouldn’t actually know goldenrod if it bit me on the ass. Tall, sticky-uppy-outa-the-grassy flower thingies. They’re probably weeds. Whatever. Pretty. A pretty field with flower thingies here and there, and maybe a stream flowing past, or a river, maybe part of the Ipswich. Just sitting there, feeling the sun on my face, listening to the wind in the weeds and the soft murmur of the nearby water . . .
I have to pee.
Dammit! I have to pee pretty bad, too! Where the hell did this come from? I didn’t have to pee at all thirty seconds ago, was lying here just as comfy as could be, not even thinking I might have to pee or anything. Well this is—I don’t—wow, I guess I really am getting old, if this is the kind of—
You think God ever has to pee?
No. No, this is bullshit. This is because I was thinking about that water running by. Nothing but the power of suggestion. I don’t really have to pee. If I ignore it, it’ll go away. Happens all the time at work, when I can’t get to a bathroom for a while. Besides, it’s—let me just stick my hand out from under the—yup, it’s cold as a well digger’s ass out there. I’m not putting a toe out from under this blanket. I’m ignoring the pee.
There is no pee.
No pee.
Besides, getting up to go to the bathroom runs contrary to the idea of getting back to sleep, and that’s what I’m going to do, go back to sleep. I know! I’ll think of a peaceful desert. That’ll help me get to sleep and fight the phantom full bladder. Dry, dry, bone-ass dry. Sun and wind and sand and me.
I wonder if this’ll make me thirsty instead?
*ALARM STARTLING THE CRAP OUT OF ME*
Okay, I think I peed a little.
~~**~~
Talk to you later!
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