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captainsblogAhhhh. Another night, another extended bout of insomnia.
I can't really explain it. Work is okay, the immediate family is good (the extendofam is re-enacting Family Feud so accurately that Richard Dawson came to the door and kissed Emily last night, but that's been going on my whole life), the bills are paid, and even the weather's been okay this week.
Yet, for whatever reason, there's about one chance in three that if I awaken somewhere between 2-ish and 5, I'm going to do the toss, followed by the turn, for many if not all of those hours. You get stuff done in there once you finally concede to it and get out of bed- and that's the frightening thing. You see the Sabres picked up another point in the dead of the Los Angeles night. The client's long-overdue payment to his trustee finally posted. Eventually, the good news comforts whatever demons are working the cortex, and you start to drift....
just in time for the animals to begin their Oh Is It Bedtime? I DON'T THINK SO routine at almost exactly 5:01.
Emily got up and fed them at 6, and Morpheus finally arrived. Bearing heavy hallucinogens. For the next two-plus hours, my subconscious took me on one of my wildest rides in years. It was one of those deals where, even where you briefly awakened, looked at the clock, decided that it was still too early and you fell back asleep, THE DREAM CONTINUED.
First, I was out with the whole extended fam at some dinner function, and almost got punched out by an ex-Marine who was smoking at the next table. (Never mind that this was legal in this state back when many at that dreamed-of table were still alive, and never mind that all of them, except my sister and me, smoked for most of their lives.) Then I was participating in a writing class, and was coming up horribly short on content, and my radiator blew a hole in it as I was heading back home, and as I awoke I was desperately pleading for a room at the King James Motel on Monroe Avenue in Rochester (a reputed no-tell motel back in its day, and no I never frequented it for any reason).
In the end, though, I brought this on myself. I seriously dissed a certain former bearer of the Dr. Who franchise, by making a joke about Ten being replaced in someone's bed by the incipient arrival of Eleven. The TARDIS, it would appear, struck back.
And so, in the best British tradition, there is only one thing to say:
I'm really really sorry, I apologise unreservedly. I do, I offer a complete and utter retraction. The imputation was totally without basis in fact, and was in no way fair comment, and was motivated purely by malice, and I deeply regret any distress that my comments may have caused you, or your family, and I hereby undertake not to repeat any such slander at any time in the future.
Now can I have the remnants of my brain back?
I can't really explain it. Work is okay, the immediate family is good (the extendofam is re-enacting Family Feud so accurately that Richard Dawson came to the door and kissed Emily last night, but that's been going on my whole life), the bills are paid, and even the weather's been okay this week.
Yet, for whatever reason, there's about one chance in three that if I awaken somewhere between 2-ish and 5, I'm going to do the toss, followed by the turn, for many if not all of those hours. You get stuff done in there once you finally concede to it and get out of bed- and that's the frightening thing. You see the Sabres picked up another point in the dead of the Los Angeles night. The client's long-overdue payment to his trustee finally posted. Eventually, the good news comforts whatever demons are working the cortex, and you start to drift....
just in time for the animals to begin their Oh Is It Bedtime? I DON'T THINK SO routine at almost exactly 5:01.
Emily got up and fed them at 6, and Morpheus finally arrived. Bearing heavy hallucinogens. For the next two-plus hours, my subconscious took me on one of my wildest rides in years. It was one of those deals where, even where you briefly awakened, looked at the clock, decided that it was still too early and you fell back asleep, THE DREAM CONTINUED.
First, I was out with the whole extended fam at some dinner function, and almost got punched out by an ex-Marine who was smoking at the next table. (Never mind that this was legal in this state back when many at that dreamed-of table were still alive, and never mind that all of them, except my sister and me, smoked for most of their lives.) Then I was participating in a writing class, and was coming up horribly short on content, and my radiator blew a hole in it as I was heading back home, and as I awoke I was desperately pleading for a room at the King James Motel on Monroe Avenue in Rochester (a reputed no-tell motel back in its day, and no I never frequented it for any reason).
In the end, though, I brought this on myself. I seriously dissed a certain former bearer of the Dr. Who franchise, by making a joke about Ten being replaced in someone's bed by the incipient arrival of Eleven. The TARDIS, it would appear, struck back.
And so, in the best British tradition, there is only one thing to say:
I'm really really sorry, I apologise unreservedly. I do, I offer a complete and utter retraction. The imputation was totally without basis in fact, and was in no way fair comment, and was motivated purely by malice, and I deeply regret any distress that my comments may have caused you, or your family, and I hereby undertake not to repeat any such slander at any time in the future.
Now can I have the remnants of my brain back?
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no subject
Date: 2010-01-22 03:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-22 09:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-23 12:34 am (UTC)My brain's a real pain in the ass sometimes.
no subject
Date: 2010-01-23 02:08 am (UTC)Speaking of inside, I was once at the King James, but not as a guest. I was on a ride-along EMT call for a naked druggie. Oh, so not pretty.
no subject
Date: 2010-01-23 02:46 am (UTC)