Okay, so I’ve made no secret of the fact that this has been a season of monumental fails for me and my nearest and dearest. From the event that coined the gruesomely hilarious phrases “head blood” and “blood dust” to the double funeral whammy to the various other “SERIOUSLY, UNIVERSE?!” moments, things have been terrible. So terrible that it’s just downright comical. I swear, it feels like the Universe is sitting around twirling its mustache diabolically as it decides to throw another curveball at me, and I’m not even up to bat. I’m on the Disabled List. Shit, not even. I’m the bat boy. STOP PITCHING TO ME!
Anyway, it should come as no surprise that after the umpteenth traumatic event this month (in which Friday was spent at the hospital with my best friend’s fella and Saturday was spent at urgent care with my own fella), my insomnia is worse than ever.
Every night I’m physically tired but my mind is racing, and I always find myself bleary-eyed and a little manic afterhours. Friday night was no exception: I was wide awake typing away on the hotel sofabed. My MIL caught me in the act, and drew out of me the confession that my 26 year record of being a champion sleeper who can snooze anywhere and in any condition has ended most disgracefully. I told her how I have trouble falling asleep, and even more trouble staying asleep when I do manage to doze off. These days I usually drift into an uneasy sleep around 4am, and wake up at 8am feeling somehow more tired than I did when I went to bed. Since she’s a charter member of the Night Owl Club, she offered me a hit of some of her sweet dream pills.
Now, I’ve never taken Ambien before in my life. I’m not a fan of pharmaceuticals in general (it took years to accept the fact that I needed to start taking antidepressants), but I’ve been aching for a good night’s rest, so I popped the pill without so much as a how-do-ya-do.
I challenged myself to write as much as I could for as long as I could as the pill started to kick in. I’ve heard so many hilarious horror stories of people on Ambien, like when my MIL put a spoonful of peanut butter under her pillow, or the time she did the Cheese Dance in the kitchen. It’s a good one.
So, this is my blogging equivalent of David Goes To The Dentist. This is…Cole Goes To The Sandman, in all its unedited glory. Warning: there be swears and weirdness ahead.
I think it’s starting to kick in.
HOLY SHIT, it’s only been 8 minutes! How does that even happen?! I’m already starting to feel a little fuzzy and dopey. Soupy, as Heather calls it. I’m becoming a big bowl of soup right now. I’m not soup yet, I’ve still got a few of my wits about me. I should name them. The big one’s Hector. The mean wormy little one is Armada. That’s a stupid name. There’s a Luna Lovegood-lookin’ motherfucker being all MPDG all over the place. That’s Tartan. She’s a pain. YOU’RE NOT QUIRKY AND ORIGINAL, YOU’RE JUST CRAZY AND ATTENIONSEEKING. Yeah, I said it. JEALOUS? I’ll say it again.
My teeth are buzzing. My tummy is hot. The lavender essential oils Second Mom made me rub behind my ears is making my cranium feel frozen. ICY BRAIN TUNDRA. Maybe it can meet up with the burning hot lava coals in my tummy and exchange a little hot tit for frozen tat.
Heh. Hot tit.
I don’t want to freak you guys out, but the room service table is moving. Not a lot, but the tablecloth is definitely blowing in a nonexistent breeze. I mean, I know it’s not reaaaaally, but that’s how I perceive it. And perception is truth. That’s what Dead Eyed Donnie said to Yell At Me Jenna a couple days ago.
I’M LIVING MY TRUTH.
That’s a horrible reference to January’s infamous Disneyland Philosophical Debate between Donnie and Beave. Fuck, if that weren’t a display of pretentious and stubborn pyrotechnics, I don’t know WHAT is. It’s funny that I love the two of them more than anything, but when their powers combine I am Captain GO FUCK YOURSELF. The power is yours!
I got hot hands. It’s like Kirk’s numb tongue, only hot and handy instead of numb and tonguey.
But for reals, I got hot hands bad tonight. It’s not a side effect of Ambien, don’t worry. Get off the phone with Poison Control, I’m FINE. You know how I know? Because I know for a fact that it’s a side effect of the Cymbalta. Ever since I started taking it, I get crazy hot flashes that are usually localized to my hands. Donnie makes fun of me and won’t let me touch him. “GET AWAY, HOT HANDS!”
Story of my life. Sadface.jpg = GPOY.
Ew, could that last line be any more Tumblry?
Psh, what am I ew-ing at? I’m just posturing like a cool kid who sneers at the fangirl wasteland that is Tumblr. Well, Fuck That Noise! I love Tumblr and I don’t care who knows it. I love that I squee over comics of Captain America and Iron Man raising a baby Peter Parker together. New Normal? Try Super Normal. HEYO I SHOULD BE IN ADVERTISING.
Holy shit, it’s 0138 hours. It’s only been twenty minutes. I’m up to 500 words. Fuck antidepressants, I need to be abusing some Ambien to kick up my blogging speed! LIGHT SPEED TO ENDOR!
What if my fingers want to type without me telling them what to do? Can I just turn off my brain and let them have free reign for once in their lives of silent servitude? Maybe they want to be poets: limerick writers or blazon composers. Or what if they want to write historical erotic fiction? Who am I to get in the way of Fitzgerald slowly and sensuously removing Averil’s bonnet? NO ONE, that’s who. Poor little fingers are exploding with stories to tell and declarations to make, and here I am running roughshod over their manifestos. I’m sorry, little fingers. I’M SORRY.
Tell you what, little fingers. With my third wish, I’ll wish for your freedom. DO YOU TRUST ME? You should, because by “wish for your freedom” I mean “I’ll get out of the way and let you have your time in the spotlight.” I’m turning off the brain and letting you guys take over. Just leave the poor exclamation point alone, she’s all the way over on top of 1 and she wants to stay there. The rest of the keyboard is your playground.
I just closed my eyes for a moment and timetraveled inside my own mind. I can’t describe it to you, but it felt like using a Portkey, the hook inside my belly yanked me out and rolled myself around myself like a pair of socks balled together. I think I just used a mental tessaract.
I think I need to go to sleep. Every time I close my eyes I see Andrew Scott in an SS uniform and I’m curious and aroused and curiously aroused and I want to follow him down the hall. Wish me luck.
Aaaaand that’s the tale of the time I tripped balls on Ambien! I don’t know if I’ll be doing that again. As much as I would love to follow Moriarty down more Nazi bunkers (insert embarrassed facepalm here), Saturday night I slept unaided for 13 hours! But I also dreamed that my old screenwriting professor made me scale old stone walls for what felt like a week, so maybe I don’t want to sleep too much after all.
And yes, I am reading too much into the meaning of that dream. Celtx is open as we speak.
Tune du Jour: Upular by Nick Bertke. I tweeted about this yesterday, but it’s that bitchin’. Get your earphones and give it a listen. Trust.