Running on the TOP of a Cop Car (No, I'm not trying to be like Michael Jackson in that ridiculous show of WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING? when he came out of the court house and got on top of the car and did a little Billy Jean. Right before he invited his fans over for tea and crumpets. I think it's a cult. I'm trying to be like N.E.R.D. They're on my playlist. When I write papers, I have to have music that I have listened to so much, the words don't distract me. Trust me. Anything distracts me at when writing. Sports. Candles. Outside noises. Yes. I need help. I know.)
Let's add today to stupid TCWH tricks. D.H. has been working nights. I have been operating on little sleep. Let me tell you why. Y'all wanna talk crazy? Have a seat.
keep reading »Understand that I am a skeptic. With a capital SKEPTIC. I don't believe in ghosts, hauntings, blah, blah, blah. Well I'll be damned (hah! bad joke) if after we moved into this building I didn't start seeing "things" out of the corner of my eye. They were hard to describe. If I sat still, the movements would appear to come closer and closer. When I was in the shower, I would have the distinct feeling of being watched. Of course, when I whirled around, there was nothing. Add to this spookiness a recent suicide in the building by one of the wives. Recent like right before I got here. Urban legend? Military Humor? Fuck if I know. (Of course, I know I'm being a little affected here. I have an overactive imagine. This is the person who at 2 years old fabricated a husband, career, and dinners in Paris, y'all. I was born this way) Finally, I freaked out. After one particularly unsettling shower, I called Momma and told her that I thought I was seeing things. She says, AND I FUCKING QUOTE! "The women in our family have always been like that", calm as a the motherfucking Jordan river (was that sacreligious? Sorry.) I about shat myself (Think that's grammatically incorrect? I actually got into it with a sophomore this year because he said shat, and I informed him that it was still profanity, as it is the past tense of shit. He argued with me round and round until finally I told him to look it up. licks finger and makes a 1 in the air. TCWH, 1. Sophomores, 0. That moment is a real source of *pride* in my life. I'm a motherfucking educator, y'all!). So the women in my family are like that. WTF? I want no part of this seeing imagining freaky thingys. REAL OR IMAGINED.
I figured I would be smart, kill two birds with one stone, and buy some sleeping pills. I have been going on auto pilot for about 3 weeks now, and it is killing me. By auto pilot, I mean, sleeping lightly from about 12 until 4:45am, when I wake up, ecstatic to have made it through the night in one piece. Yes Virginia, I am that idiot that lives in the apartment above you that takes a running start from the door and dives onto the bed so the monsters under it don't grab my feet. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, maturity. Just kidding. I've been getting up at that time to exercise. Go deal with the monsters until 2. Come home and do homework in the form of 15 page papers until 6. Eat. Return to computers. Kiss DH goodbye at 9:45 and work until midnight, when I finally crawl, exhausted and mind racing, into bed.
Allow me to convey what a joy I am to be around on little sleep. Cranky and obtuse. Obese? I think that everything you do means you hate me, like putting silverware away in the drawer. Not a pretty sight. Just draw the little chalk marks around me now.
I took *new* and *improved* sleeping pills last night at around 9:00 and was fighting sleep around 9:24. And by fighting, I mean, eyes were closed, but I was fully concious. I was trying to tell D.H., but I could not physically open my mouth and tell him. My mouth would not move. I thought to myself, "What the hell was in...." and never finished the thought, because I passed out.
Fast forward to this morning. My eyes popped open at 5:30, and I shook my head to clear the whispies of my youngest step-son singing some Seussian rhymes about his grades to me (??? Am I the only one who thinks I sound like a crack whore here?). Interesting, considering I haven't talked to the kid since August. It's okay. He doesn't like to talk to me on the phone because it makes his mom cry. She's a manipulative bitch. I should take lessons.
Seated at my portal into the alternate universe, I attempted to finish my final heartbreaking work of staggering idiocy (yes, I stole it. fine me. Thank you, Dave Eggers) for FIVE HOURS. I felt. Tired. Drugged. I chugged water. Shook my head. Opened the windows. Did some shots of tequila. Ate the worm. All in vain. I felt sluggish. I went into the bathroom, turned on the lights, and watched my pupils. Dilated. As. Hell. If I were to sit behind the wheel of a car, I probably would have gotten arrested.
I finally passed out for about 3 hours, and was awakened by D.H, who was sleeping off his night shift. I ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My pupils are still freakishly dilated and I still feel stoned out of my gourd. Wait, Why am I complaining again?
Diphenhydramine HCL. It's what's for dinner.
Speaking of which, I am about to crack open one of those pre-mixed margaritas I bought. They were a dollar! For four! The young man in front of me leaned back and said, "Umm, they taste like cough syrup." I winked and said, "Thanks, cutie! NyQuil or Robitussin?"
Rock FUCKING Star. Now all I need are the sex and rock n'roll.
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