those of you who know me are probably fucking sick of hearing me obsess about sleep -- how much of it i get or don't get, how much i like it, how much i want it, how much i needs it, my precious. too. damn. bad.
four hours. four hours. i know that bryant gumbel and that katy couric bitch can function on four hours of sleep, but i am a human being, not an automaton programmed by aliens to get up at the butt crack of dawn in order to drone on about whether or not tom cruise is possessed by the spirit of l. ron freaking hubbard. ahem.
i apologize for my nasty tone. i get a bit testy when i am tired. perhaps it's the bleary eyes that looked like i've smoked more dope than woody harrelson and bill clinton combined. perhaps it's being more bloated than that whale that blew up from the inside out in taiwan. perhaps it's the feeling of fogginess, of my world being slightly slower than it should be. i have no doubt that my poor little axons are trying to fire neurochemicals at one another as bravely as the residents of the alamo shot at the mexicans, and with about that much enthusiasm. but like the texans, they are losing the battle.
how desperate is the situation? i am now contemplating taking a nap in the juevenile delinquent's room at our office. who knows what i might lay in? who knows what substances have soaked into those couches? will i get bedbugs? lice? syphyillis? do i really care? is having a nap worth getting some unknown skin disease? damn. i have nice skin. i don't want to break out in syphyillitic sores. i suppose i will have to tough it out. wish me luck. i feel a little bit like william b. travis writing to sam houston. that one's for you, jenny.
