You’ve been spared another awkward attempt at improvisational short fiction writing!
The deck is stacked against me tonight. I slept last night, but in an exceedingly bad way. Between flare-ups and reoccurring dreams of trying to use the bathroom in public places when everyone and their brother (and sister) seemed to take such attempts as an invitation to come watch (please, I don’t understand such dreams either), I think I got a sum total of maybe three or four hours of solid sleep. The Fitbit watch says five, but I know for a fact that laying prone without doing anything that constitutes a step will count as “sleep”, and I can attest that in no way did I get five hours. I can function on five hours. Less than four… yeah, functioning becomes survival mode and I can nod at the right time, but otherwise I come off as staggering drunk who happens to not smell like beer or booze. And I drool and make such sounds as you might find on a Romero film (“Brraaaaiiiinnnnnzzzz”), except that it might be “Caaaaawwwwffeeeeee” or the use of a four letter word starting with “F” as a noun, adjective, adverb, verb and interjection all in the same sentence. [Thank you, my heavy metal friends from the 80s, for teaching me such skills!].
In fact, I’m prone to speaking parenthetically (especially when I shouldn’t) and you can hear the italics in my sentence, which totally doesn’t sound like whining, and totally sounds merely as if I am adding emphasis to a word or group of words.
It is not a madness that drives me, although I am most likely mad. It is fatigue. Will I go to bed at a reasonable time, then?
OH. HELL. NO.
Sleep is optional and there is plenty of time to sleep when you’re dead, soldier!
Or maybe I will go find Mr. Fluffernut and cuddle up with him and —