Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Insomnia is a Brillig Bitch and Other Meditations on the Frumiousness of ML.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.
                          - Lewis Carroll
                          (from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872) 

Sigh. I'm so sleepy I IS THAT A UNICORN PRANCING ACROSS THE CUL DE SAC oh never mind. Yawn. I've been up since 2AM. You? One night I'll learn to quit fighting my wily bogeyman and just get out  the bed when it so obviously, unequivocally, and indisputably appears that I'll not be revisiting dreamland again ante this meridiem. Really, it's a waste of imaginative energy and my heightened sense of drama to spend four hours each godawfully EARLY morning brooding over last year's Tax Deductions of Questionable Legality and the boy's heart arrythmia and the plight of the orphans of Haiti and OH MY GOD WHAT IF A COMET REALLY IS ON TRACK TO PUMMEL THE PLANET AND BRUCE WILLIS WAS DEAD ALL ALONG (curse you, M. Night. Shyamalan and I don't believe that's your real name either!) or I'm Pretty Sure That This Twitch In My Eye is MS.

And I get foot cramps. Paralyzing, agonizing, My-Toes-Are-Trying-To-Make-The-Vulcan-Salute-Entirely-Against-My-Will Cramps.

AND everyone in my house snores.  Seriously.  It's positively cacophonic.  Husband, children, dogs.  Cat.   OH HAI NALA ARE YOU FINALLY DYING I KEEP EXPECTING TO HEAR A DEATH RATTLE AT ANY MOMENT BUT INSTEAD IT APPEARS YOU HAVE SLEEP APNEA.  (purr/snore/suspend breathing...purr/snore/suspend breathing)

I should just slay the insomniac jabberwock, rise up from the covers and channel my uffish thoughts into writing the Great American Novel.  Burble, burble. Snicker-snack.  Really, what else is there to do at three in the morning but fire up the desktop (note that I mean this expression as the phrasal idiom it so obviously is in that I have successfully avoided setting fires at night ever since I fell back to sleep after having placed a frozen pizza in the oven only to wake up to hours later with the fire alarm screaming and a lump of charcoal in my new GE Profile built-in convection oven) and let the creative juices flow.

(Diagram THAT sentence, bitches....)

Sadly, at three in the EVER LOVING MORNING my words come out  more mimsy and outgrabed than Carrol's Walrus and soon I can't find any more of the little scoundrels and my stories fall flat as matzo.  Do you know what I can find a lot of at three o'clock in the morning?   Porn.  And lolcats.  Neither of which are conducive to my elbowing my way past Steinbeck and Vonnegut.  But damn they're funny.

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