"The wages of sin are death, but by the time taxes are taken out, it's just sort of a tired feeling." --Paula Poundstone
I gotta admit. That quote cracks me up, and though I've never really quite dug Miss Poundstone, sometimes, she really can be pretty damn funny.
Anyway, I think I may have tumbled upon a sort of odd cure for these aches and pains: Lack of sleep.
I don't get it either, but I've been awake off and on since one o'clock Wednesday morning, and the strange thing is, stuff isn't hurting all that badly.
I figure sleeping, and the whole not moving thing that pretty much comes along with it keeps a lot of the painful stiffness away. And, so far, it's not all that bad since I managed to avoid all that hassle. Granted, my brain is a lot like the bottom of a pretty dirty fishtank, and this isn't exactly something I'd enjoy doing on a long term basis.
You see, I like sleep. Sleep and I are good pals. In fact, I may actually be willing to go so far as to say that I like sleep so much that I would be willing to sleep with sleep. With cuddling afterwards.
Anyway, in other news, it's brutally freakin' cold here this morning. I mean, it's the kind of cold where I half to expect to open the door to retrieve the morning paper only to find Steve Buscemi being crammed into a woodchipper by some sort of shady thug of unknown European origin.
It's five degrees and falling... That's five. I don't know what it is in Celsius because... Hello? Not much sleep! So, I'll just say is a thousand, billion degrees below zero for all you metric heads and your damn base ten gibberish. Seriously, I like that I can see five degrees and know it's too damn cold to breathe. I mean, what's zero in Celsius?
32 Fahrenheit!
When it's thirty-two in Wisconsin, people are swimming in the lake, it's t-shirt weather and most of my neighbors are firing up their grills complaining about having to mow the lawn if it gets any warmer.
However, when it's zero, we're all counting our stockpiles of Spam and cream of mushroom soup thinking about which family on the block should provide the most sustenance should things get too bad.
Oh what? Like you guys wouldn't turn to a little long pig if the situation arose.
And, don't get me wrong. I'm not all that anxious to roast my neighbor (though he's got a freakin' ridiculously beautiful wife who, at times, looks like she'd forgive me for gitting her hubby out of the picture), it's just these people owe me. After all, I'm not the one with the damned leaf blower, the annoying dog, or the 3 AM let's sit in the garage and rev our motorcycle while listening to Molly Hatchet issues.
Nope. I'm the quiet guy who keeps to himself. And, no. I'm not a serial killer. I don't have the freakin' attention span to ever be a serial killer.
Oh hey! I just discovered another perk about staying up for 28 hours straight. Coffee tastes better than sex.
Yeah. It does.
You know that big, gooey, near-orgasmic "Ahhh" that rolls out of you when you have that nice first swig of the morning?
After 28 hours, every sip tastes like that --even the little dainty sips the size of which, in all her prim and proper morning antics, The Queen of England takes. Then again, for all I know, she may drink her morning coffee out of one of those massive 64 ounce plastic travel mugs from 7-11 as she wanders through Buckingham Palace scratching her ass before settling down on the thunderbox for a royal morning constitutional.
Sorry, England. I know you folks try very hard, but we all know that The Queen poops. Granted, they may be dipped in gold and coated with diamonds because she's the queen and all, but still, it happens. And, she probably sits there like a fratboy reading the Times and cursing about the scores from the Man-U match.
My god! How in the hell did I get on the Queen of England?
(And, trust me here, if that isn't something which you really don't want to ever find yourself saying at five in the morning, I don't know what would be.)
Anywho... Back here in America, where things are considerably less funny, it would seem everyone's in Iowa for some sort of caucus or another. I just don't really understand a damn bit of it, but considering that it's about as frozen in Iowa as it is here, it'll be fun watching all those clingy, campaign newspeople freeze their giblets off in this cold. I wonder if Romney will be handing out some Mitt-Approved Magic-Mormon Underpants?
Nonetheless, I suppose I need to go and try to, umm, wake up... Or, try to wake up more than I am since I've got to get back on the phone again and deal with people and numbers and math and drugs... It's like freakin' high school all over again.
If I am still awake, I'll try to be back. Today's the day I start my month of Humira, so I'm sure I'll be writing a freakin' dissertation about how I managed to stab the bloody hell out of myself trying to figure out needles and drugs and how to get this medication into my system without resorting to just squirting the stuff into a martini in place of vermouth.
-DP
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Posted By Dan to The Wisdom of a Distracted Mind at 1/03/2008 04:02:00 AM
I hav eto admit, while it was earlier than 5:27 a.m. your time when you hit "save," it was 5:27 a.m. my time. (Don't ask me how many hours different it is.) While I didn't get to sleep straight through the night, something about the heater not wanting to stay on and other "fun," I'm SO glad I wasn't up at even 5:27 a.m. thinking about the Queen of England taking her encrusted constitutional.
ReplyDeleteThen again, if you're feeling in less pain, and enjoying coffee THAT much, good.
The wind chill here last evening was zero (F). It may warm up to 32. I'm not about to eat my neighbor. I think I'd prefer sugar cookies and coffee and tea. :)
Just lost my reply to AOHell and it was a good one, Now I forgot what I was saying. So.
ReplyDeleteEnjoy your coffee and get some sleep, you need it. Bill
I think you'll find the queen drinks gin rather than coffee. And as for crapping, she probably can't get in the small room as it's in constant use by her old man who is pretty much full of sh*t.
ReplyDeleteNow get some sleep man!
B.