The unproductive side of insomnia.

21 Aug

There is a certain terror that courses thru me on the occasional friday, my day off, when I wake up and realize that I do not have a blog ready.

I usually write them several days ahead of time and schedule them. It makes life that much easier.

Not today.

Today, we go old school.

For the first 6 months of this blog’s existence, I wrote it every weekday, right before heading down the hill in Manhattan Beach to the office.

500 to a 1000 words, on the fly.

And some of that stuff was brilliant.

So here we are today.

I got nothing.


Among the many things that bother me is the fact that I can’t sleep.

Insomnia has always been like some sort of karmic herpes for me.

It lingers, could pop up at any moment and has ruined many nights and the ensuing days for me.

What does it want?

It never says.

It just sits there, glaring at me, taunting me, belittling my lack of rem state.

Like there was a damn thing I could do about it.

I was about 7 years old when my mother stopped trying to make me go to sleep at 8pm.

The unspoken rule was, turn the lights out and at least fake being asleep by 6am and we were good.

Writing became a survival tactic to keep me from getting into bigger mischief.

Plus its fairly quiet as far as late night activities go.

Most people don’t understand how little sleep you can function on.

I went thru most of high school on an hour of sleep a night, and I usually just stayed awake on the 4th night.

I ran on adrenaline.

I have mellowed since then.

I get about 4-6 hours of sleep a night now.

And I only get up 2-3 times a night, this is pretty good.

Being single kind of amplifies it.

When I have a regular bed mate, I sleep like a stone.

Insomnia doesn’t mind screwing with me, but at least its polite to my company.

Except that I am single right now.

Not by choice, lord knows I try.

However, and I came to peace a long ago with this fact, my odd collection of mental/emotional shit is no day at the beach.

I have always been indecisive about what particular medal my ex should be awarded, but she does deserve something.

I mean, you get to read the blog, giggle at the nastiness, put it down and go about your day.

Now imagine that you live with this mind, this mouth and this attitude 24/7.

M. Night Shyamalan would write the horror movie version of this little plot line.

And you would think that, being up most nights, I would write the damn blog.


So here we are.

Literary rambling at its finest.

And my favorite breakfast place has so far delivered 2 different dishes that I did NOT order.

My order is not a difficult one.

1 pancake, 1 sausage, 1 scrambled egg.

Seems simple, doesn’t it?

Nope, first plate to arrive was the country skillet.

Eggs, potatos, ham, sausage, bacon, and a handfull of various chopped veggies.

I was tempted to keep it, it looked that good.

However, that would mean someone else didn’t get theirs.

The second dish came soon after.

Biscuits and gravy, hot and steamy. Looks absolutely delicious.

And its still not what I ordered.

I am now worried that, thru no fault of my own, I am in danger of angering the help to the point that someone will spit in my food.

Its a harmless paranoia, all things considered.

But the thought of an extra shot of questionable DNA in my eggs makes my stomach a little queasy.

Breakfast has finally arrived, along with the end of today’s meandering rant.

So I will eat the food and let you digest this.

Much like baby food, it will not strain your system, will fill you for an hour or so, and just might give you the shits.


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Posted by on August 21, 2015 in Uncategorized


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