Thursday, February 15, 2007
I'm sleepy even when I'm sleeping
Throughout the first trimester of pregnancy (that’s the first three months for you lay people) a catatonic states lurks in the shadows awaiting a moment of weakness. That five minutes you take to think about the best way to organize your day. The ten minutes you spend on the toilet relieving last nights meal and this mornings beverage. Fifteen minutes after someone on the train realizes you are in fact pregnant, and not just fat, so they give you their seat. It tenses, pupils wide, and pounces. Blackness overtakes you at your desk, on the toilet, and during the train ride to work or home.
You begin to think that with all the little cat naps during the day you’ll be awake all night. But what you find is instead of watching how House is going to save the autistic, cancerous, hemophiliac she-male, you fall asleep with the TV on. But see, this is a threatening situation, because somehow, even though you’re knocked out, you can hear the 10 o’clock news (which if you’ve ever watched New York news you know they put the boogie man to shame).
As you sleep, instead of the blackness of those five, ten, or fifteen minutes you racked up at work or on your way to work, you start dreaming of she-male babies that have blown up historic town homes in uptown Manhattan with Paris Hilton as an accomplice and she has somehow captured a terrorist who is praying to the honorable Barack Obama to be saved from being eaten by Kirstie Alley who is shilling for Lipitor. And the dreams go on in intermittent blackness, and you wake up mentally exhausted—unprepared to start a new day.
Rinse, wash, repeat.
You begin to think that with all the little cat naps during the day you’ll be awake all night. But what you find is instead of watching how House is going to save the autistic, cancerous, hemophiliac she-male, you fall asleep with the TV on. But see, this is a threatening situation, because somehow, even though you’re knocked out, you can hear the 10 o’clock news (which if you’ve ever watched New York news you know they put the boogie man to shame).
As you sleep, instead of the blackness of those five, ten, or fifteen minutes you racked up at work or on your way to work, you start dreaming of she-male babies that have blown up historic town homes in uptown Manhattan with Paris Hilton as an accomplice and she has somehow captured a terrorist who is praying to the honorable Barack Obama to be saved from being eaten by Kirstie Alley who is shilling for Lipitor. And the dreams go on in intermittent blackness, and you wake up mentally exhausted—unprepared to start a new day.
Rinse, wash, repeat.
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