My Name is Kathy, and I Can't Sleep.
This is also the worst answer to "How are you?" a person can give, and the most overused phrase by people who are bored, lame, or seeking sympathy. But man, I mean it. I am tired, fatigued, exhausted, somnolent and sleepy, all adjectives I remembered without use of a thesaurus because I am too tired to move my hand to the mouse and open Merriam Webster.com. How many synonyms have I missed? I don't know. I'm just too tired.
I can't keep my eyes open for two reasons: Ikea and porn. Well, maybe it's the fault of my Ikea Fjelldall loft bed, my number one archenemy, with which I would so have a shoot out at high noon if being this tired wouldn't totally fuck with my razor-sharp trigger reflexes. There's also the possibility that the blame goes to my landlord who hasn't yet turned off the heat completely, or the kid who runs laps one floor above my head all night. Maybe it's some weird Circadian disruption. Maybe it's a voodoo hex from someone envious of my wealth, dazzling beauty, and enviable career. Whatever it is, I just can't sleep.
Normally I'm a fucking sleep champion. I used to be the gold medalist of sleeping. I slept through classes in college. I slept in classes in high school. I slept on the train next to snoring, drooling businessmen. I've slept on the the subway and nearly missed my stop, which is awesome when it's way past midnight and you're the only girl on a train filled with greasy old guys. But now I can't sleep at all, even when I'm in bed in my best pajama pants and I'm so freaking tired I'm even willing to ignore the tiny marathoner living upstairs. Nothing. Except for like half an hour at a time, followed by long periods of using TV static to illuminate the book I'm reading.
This makes me pretty tired during the day.
The other issue here is porn. I went out with Brad and new friend Jason last night for what was supposed to be a quick stop at Happy Valley to wish a disco astronaut happy birthday. Except, oops, it was a Burning Angel party. You know, that website. With the tattooed girls. Doing it.
Porn has this way of sneaking up on me. I'm not a porn watcher; I think it's too funny to find it at all sexy. Still, somehow I've ended up at far more than my fair share of strip nights and gay porn star appearances, around more flopping go-go dancers in loincloths than even the biggest Fabio fan could wish for, and with German dungeon magazine photos hidden in all of my belongings (thanks, Brad). So accidentally ending up at a party full of confused regulars, ecstatic straight college guys, and the world's least sexy (but most inked) sort-of-nudie girls was about par for my porn course.
While there were undoubtedly people stoked to see lifesize, non-digital boobs, I can't say I was real titillated by yet another porncident. Oh boy, they're making out. Oh boy, they've all got black hair and bangs. Oh boy, they're sort of shimmying on the bar. Oh boy, it's one o'clock in the morning and I'm an old lady who needs her sleep, and in lieu of being able to actually do that I'm willing to accept a few hours in the wooden embrace of my Fjelldall, punching my pillow.
So now I'm at work, and I'm tired. Brad has more than once lamented the loss of "put your head down" time, a last resort for overworked public school teachers to calm a class of screeching kids with endless post-Fruit Rollup energy. I just want to put my head down. I want it to be time for the VP to switch off the lights and insist that I put my forehead down on the cool, wonderful plastic of my desk for, like, twenty minutes. Or the next six hours.
Instead, I'm ingesting caffeine at a rate sure to do permanent damage to my kidneys and fighting the coffee vultures in the kitchen for my rightful cup of prison-grade mud. They're my least favorite people in the office--worse than whoever keeps clogging the toilet in the bathroom with disturbing amounts of toilet paper, and worse even than the pen stealer who fucks with the very specific arrangement of tea, hand lotion, and empty animal cracker boxes on my desk. The coffee vultures will try to squeeze a cup out of the three drops left in a pot someone else brewed, lurk around until some sap makes another one, and then descend like captive pirhanas on a curious toddler's pointer finger. It's not hard, you lazy pieces of crap. Coffee in filter, filter in machine, coffee emerges.
I could do it in my sleep.