Itís three in the morning. I fell asleep around nine oíclock, on what would now technically be called last night. I slept nice and peaceful, right up until one this morning. I woke up once, decided that there was no good reason to get up at one in the morning and stay up until I had completely wrecked my Saturday. I woke up an hour later, almost to the minute. I was having dreams about work, and in it one of my managers was doing something stupid and blaming it on me. This kind of dream is like the ones I used to have when I was a kid, where I would wake up, go to school, learn stupid crap that had no solid connection to anything I would ever need to know in real life, finally make it through the day and thenÖwake up. Itís like youíre just wasting sleep if you dream about being at school or at work or at some other place you regularly go when your heartís filled with hatred.
And wasting sleep is just wasting life. Iím not one of those people who maintains that you can sleep when youíre dead. Thatís all nice and all, if you can stay up all the time, enjoying life to the fullest, and never regretting that you didnít hit the hay for a good nine or fifteen hours. Me, I like sleep. I think itís a nice state of mind, if you can have some coolóor maybe just exceptionally weirdódreams. I like to let my brain out to play and think whatever it wants to, and it seems like the only time I can do something like that without getting locked up in some asylum or another is when Iím asleep.
But when I start dreaming about how Iím getting in trouble at work for something that I didnít even do, thatís when I feel like maybe itís time to give the ole subconscious a beating and send it to itís room with no supper.
So I staggered out of bed at two this morning, bleary-eyed and with a remarkable loss of the ability to walk straight. I managed to get the laptop out of the bedroom without waking up my princess, and I managed to get it plugged in and turned on with a pretty minimal amount of trouble.
My eyes are all rusty, and my nose is running something fierceóallergies. Allergies run in my family the same way that that mean-ass dog used to run in the exact neighborhood that you had to walk through to get home from school. What I mean is, they run rampant and crazy, only they donít bark as much. My mom and my brother, they take allergy medicine pretty regularóregular like the sun coming up in the morning. My sister, she took the drug-free course to deal with her allergiesóshe had a couple of kids. Now she has to spend so much of her time thinking about their allergies that she never has time to think about her own. And me?
I blow my nose a lot, and spend way too much time rubbing my itchy eyes and explaining to anyone within earshot that I have allergies. Having allergies makes you look like a drug user (narcotics, I mean, not the over-the-counter stuff thatís legal) that just couldnít make up his mind. You get the red eyes that are generally associated with either drunks or potheads, you get the itchy, runny nose thatís practically trademarked by the people that run around snorting coke, and you end up kind of confused looking, which, honestly, could describe just about any drug user Iíve ever known.
Anyways, so Iím up, looking like a drug abuser of some sort, and itís too early to watch my Saturday morning cartoons. And at this point, itís really too late to go to bed. So itís me and you and my laptop. And of course, thereís Portly Boy.
Good morning, Appreciated Readers, I hope youíre all having pleasant dreams.