Thursday, November 25, 2010

The Sleepening.

I am sleeping.
I am trying to sleep.
I am ignoring the sounds of a storm brewing.
I am warm, and I don't want to move.

Now there is yelling, I hear it.
Now there is a little hand pulling my toes.
Now my eyes snap open.

The idea of sleeping in past 730 in the morning is a silly notion.
Often T will ask if I'd like to try and sleep in.
The key word is try, and it is less a question about what I would like to have happen in the morning and more of a challenge to ignore the rumbling, hollering stomping tornado that starts at 7 am and doesn't end until sometime after my 3rd or 4th stiff drink.

I like to get things done.
This is what I tell myself when I am rolling out into the cold morning air.
"Well, I guess I'll get a start on my bucket list."
But of course I'd like to sleep in.
I don't want to sleep my day away, but it'd be nice to wake up on my own terms around say, 8 o'clock.

Ideally I'd be kidnapped in the middle of the night and driven to a remote location and left in the van, battered bruised and bloodied, but asleep.

Ideally my "family" would be beamed out of the house around 630.
Like a science fiction story, their molecules would be broken down here and reassembled over near the park in a matter of nano seconds. And because I am such a caring person, breakfast and coffee will be served once they arrive.
Meanwhile I am just barely registering the fact that I have nothing but sweet, sweet silence ahead of me for the next few hours as I roll over and fall back into my dreams.

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No dick heads please.