Thursday, 13 July 2006

• Currently Listening Nashville By Josh Rouse see related

  now i lay me down to scream . . .

  Everyone goes through it at some point.
  
  Just one of those nights where the forces of good and evil, mother nature, modern irrigation, the texas federation of junebugs, ancient board games and suffocatingly comfortable down duvets unite in one truly vindictive napoleonic campaign to keep you from getting anything resembling "actual sleep."
  
  And the sad part is that you can't really lash out at anyone, because, well, it WAS your freaking tilt-a-whirl of brain refusing to turn off, rebelliously continuing it's relentless  "Never when you need me" efficiency policy and churning out ruminations of philosophical importance like...  Is Zach Braff really as attractive as I think?  Does he have the Ben Stiller 'Almost-Attractive-Except...Something's-Just-Not-Right' curse?  And, of course,  What circle of hell might be reserved for those who consume an entire can of Eagle Brand Milk at 2:30 a.m.?  And wouldn't it be a shame if I never found out?
  
  *sigh*
  
  Okay, fine, stop right there.  Many humorous writers encourage young padawans like myself to add breadth to their stories by simply using an approach they call "Making up a lot of the substance."  Others have shortened said approach to "Lying" and / or "Making all of it up."  While I'm sure this comes as heartbreaking shock,  I need to confess that even in the few short paragraphs preceeding this statement, I've trespassed The Dark Side�.  That thought?  The one about the Eagle Brand Milk?  Yeah, that thought didn't occur at 2:30 a.m. It actually occured 2:30 p.m., at which time the caves where my wisdom teeth used to frolic and I ventured into the pantry looking for something sooooofffhhhttt.  To my credit, I didn't even make it to the kitchen table before something akin to whiplash hit myself respect, and I realized it wasn't worth sacrificing for a taste of  the sweet, sweet, faintly-milk-like nectar of all that is right in the world. 
  
  ...Also playing a slight role in that turnaround is my little brother, who walked in on my moment of weakness, and... would have mocked me. 
  
  Annnd I'm sorry, I just took a Hydrocodon, so my sentences are long, and I WILL be changing tenses throughout this entry.  I'm reading Hemmingway, I swear.  I'm learning.
  
  Anyway.  So I'm lying in bed trying to lull myself into a false sense of peace. I get to the low point where I'm surfing from Myspace profile to Myspace profile, gawking at various and sundry members of my church who seem to live alternate jailbait lifestyles online. An hour later, I'm exhausted with Myspace, the world, and young prostitots.  Sleep is sounding great.  I'm exhausted.  I haven't stayed up this late in weeks, as I've been out like a light around 11 due to the influx of self-medication. 
  
  Finally, I begin to drift of to YayNowICanDreamAboutZachBraff-Land ( 3rd star to the left, straight on 'til forever ), lulled by the gentle, rocking melody of the lovely italian cricket family that perches on my windowsill and serenades the greater DFW area.
  
  This moment marks the beginning of the Night of NoSleepForYou!
  
  The sprinkler system switches on. It's new, apparently. We have a big house on three acres, and as much as we'd like to leave the watering up to my grandmother, we really can't in accordance with certain biblical principles about respecting the elderly.  I don't deny that some sort of sprinkler implementation was necessary.
  
  I DO deny that it was necessary to plant the freaking sprinkler head two feet outside of my bedroom windows, so the peaceful, constant sound pattern goes something like pit-it-it-it-it-it-it-it-it-it-tuuuuut, pit-it-it-it-it-it-it-it-it-it-tuuuuut, PITTITTIITITITITITUUUUTTTTT across the window, back across the window, and in general, like the Texas Confederation of Junebugs that Hate Jennifer Carden More Than She Hates Them have begun the harmonic speed Mancala contest of the decade and are stationed in age-appropriate tribes outside her window, maniacally manipulating teeny tiny glass baubles up and down and across miniature wooden game boards at the highest decible level POSSIBLE, going so far as to out-do the Little Drummer Boy's strong bid to annoy the Christ Child.
  
  I've illustrated what I feel may have been the impassioned call to legs made by Captain Horatio J. Hornbug of the Flowerpot Battalion last night.  To give you a little background, I hate junebugs... more than spiders, snakes and a few choice liberal politicians, and the Captain is believe to have survived many repeated footfalls of death outside my front door, which is the site where he's led his sticky-legged compatriats in a stream of failed attempts to eat all of my hair.  He's obviously holding a grudge.
  
  His stump speech:
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  { click to enlarge }
  
  

  
  
  After what seems like hours, the last strains of the bitter tribal Song of the Mancala Junebugs transition to the slightly more unsettling Death Chant, and while I briefly contemplate throwing myself out the window and into the throes of their well-organized, probably merciless ranks, I finally snap out of the medication-induced weakness and concoct a daring escape plan.
  
  I get out of bed. Venturing upstairs into my mom's room,  I throw myself upon the mercy of her king sized bed in retreat ( FYI - She's at my Aunt's, so it wasn't one of those, "Mummy, the junebugs are attacking me again, please stroke my forehead and give me another painkiller, oh, and can I pweeeaaase sleep in here and watch Space Jam?" type situations. ).
  
  What I hadn't considered in my retreat plan is that my mother has the constitution of a block of ice.  Her room, accordingly, is extremely conducive to the forcible removal of anyone else with a different idea of, say, "Arctic Temperatures."  
  
  It's cold. Very cold. No blankets in sight.  Goosebumps forming on my eyebrows, I stumble out of her room to the gameroom, where, wonder of wonders, down duvet of duvets, sitting on the couch, at my disposal, is yes, a down duvet.   It's definitely 4:45 at this point, but hey, some sleep > no sleep, so I hoist the king sized duvet back into my mom's frostchamber, onto the bed, and situate myself under its warm, fluffy protective covering, very, very ready to drift of to a down-enchanted wonderland.
  
  Except for the part where we need to cross out "its warm, fluffy protective covering," and fill its space with "its BONE-CRUSHING,  PERMANENT BODY STRUCTURE-ALTERING protective covering."
  
  I'd failed to notice, while spreading the duvet across the bed in a stupor, that this particular duvet had the general weight and consistency of a polar bear, and while polar bears are generally cute and sweet in animated movies, sleeping directly under one for an extended period generally reduces your chance of survival by, say, 140%.  Not looking good for the home team.
  
  I was still cold.  I was smothering.  I was losing the use of my legs.   I was still groggily angry at the Junebug Federation, and it was 5:30.  There are no happy places, happy thoughts or cartons of pixie dust floating around at this moment.
  
  Finally, I threw off the duvet,  hobbled downstairs, grabbed a blanket, earmuffs and a sweatshirt, hobbled upstairs, and crawled, thoroughly defeated, into the cold sterility of my mother's cavernous bed. 
  
  
  . . .
  
  
  
  An hour later, my grandmother's adorable little dog "Joy" began to bark.  Incessantly.
  
  
  Probably at the junebugs.
  
  
  The great, cosmic Sleep Nazi had denied me once again.
  
  
  

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