It's never my intention to write total downers, things just evolve to that.
I'm actually very good right now. The issue is that I have my moments of sadness, especially when I get all introspective and take inventory of my life. That shit never ends well.
I'm also still trying to adjust to the time change. While out there, I hung out in three different time zones, so my body was thrown into total disarray. Some days I'd sleep 12 hours, others three, and the two days after arriving, I slept ZERO hours at night. I'd cat nap in the afternoon for an hour or two, then be furious at night with my inability to sleep.
The night I arrived, I slept for three hours (I arrived at 1AM on a Monday), then I "went to bed" that Monday night, because in the morning, I'd be jetting off to Rome. I slept zero hours that night, left to Rome, an hour behind Athens, and hit the ground running... thinking I'd come back to my room at night and pass the fuck out.
No such luck. I got to the room, got in my Tempur-Pedic bed (for reals. I learned of this hotel with the cool-ass beds last year, and returned this year 'cause FUCK does it feel good to get massaged before going to bed), and tossed and turned ALL MOTHERFUCKING NIGHT. I was a fucking mess... and angry, hungry mess.
I finally got into the swing of things that Wednesday night, when I slept for five hours before my mom and aunt woke me up at three in the morning with their "AnoMALIE... AnoMALIE... are you asleep?" No. I'm fucking bungee jumping! Of course I was fucking asleep, women... fuck!
They'd claim they wouldn't sleep... but their snoring would beg to differ.
"I haven't slept a wink since arriving on this side of the pond!" they'd both say.
For reals? So the snoring is... just... you singing yourself to sleep or something?
The snoring would keep me awake, and their claims of being unable to sleep would bother me too much to sleep.
Then my aunt would allude to "someone snoring last night" and I'd correct her. "Weren't you guys concerned I was dead because I was so silently sleeping?" I'm a fucking corpse when I sleep, don't come at me with suggestions that I snore. Often times I don't even move from my original position all damn night. I fucking die when I go to sleep.
In Paris, I slept like a baby... a baby who had spent all motherfucking day crying for her mom and then knocked the fuck out.
Back in Athens, I would sleep about eight hours, regularly. I would struggle to make it past midnight, then would wake up no later than 7:30AM, like clockwork.
Once it was time for London, two hours behind Athens, I went to bed at 11 and woke up at 5AM, wide awake.
I don't remember dreaming while out on this vacation. Of all the days, I only remember the one dream I had on Christmas eve, which had me waking up drenched in sweat Christmas morning.
It was a most random nightmare, which had me shaking my head the moment I forced myself awake:
I was sitting in my car, idling around, when suddenly Brett Favre started smashing my car with a baseball bat.
I remember jumping out of the vehicle, and staring at him completely bewildered. I saw him angrily running around the car towards me--yelling terrifying obscenities-- and I bolted down the street... still confused as to why this famous stranger wanted to kill me. (Know that I am at my highest level of horror when I run in my dreams. I don't enjoy running in real life... and if something gets me to "bolt" in a dream, I'm having a REALLY bad time)
I managed to escape to an idilic suburban neighborhood, kind of like the one on "Pete and Pete," where I bumped into... the guy I always talk about-- the guy who always pops into my dreams.
He was standing (his usual stance, where he puts his hands in his pockets. That's how I remember him most back in college), observing, not saying a word, as I walked across the street.
We looked at each other, my heart still pounding, scared out of my mind... when good ol' Brett cuts through the neighborhood like some motherfucking bull in Pamplona.
The guy I always talk about and dream about, my former classmate, looks over at me, and only says "You better run."
And that ends my dream.
I woke up confused. STILL scared and confused as fuck.
Why the fuck was I dreaming about a football player, THAT football player of all players?
Then my best friend accidentally clarified it for me:
He played for the Packers.
What state are the Packers from?
Boom. Clarity.
My mind is such a little bitch... my mind on a fucked up sleeping schedule is a manic little cunt.
Thank you for that fucking bizarre-o dream. Next time, can we go back to the more typical shit of this homeboy comforting me in desolate, yet beautiful locations like the beach or hidden forest? That'd be ideal, if you're so intent on bringing him back into mind.
Not this scary bullshit that has me exercising like some fucking olympic athlete.
(LOL. This just reminded me of the first dream he was ever in, where he led me to some rave under the Sun Temple of Teotihuacan... hahahahaha. Good times. Good random times)
I'm actually very good right now. The issue is that I have my moments of sadness, especially when I get all introspective and take inventory of my life. That shit never ends well.
I'm also still trying to adjust to the time change. While out there, I hung out in three different time zones, so my body was thrown into total disarray. Some days I'd sleep 12 hours, others three, and the two days after arriving, I slept ZERO hours at night. I'd cat nap in the afternoon for an hour or two, then be furious at night with my inability to sleep.
The night I arrived, I slept for three hours (I arrived at 1AM on a Monday), then I "went to bed" that Monday night, because in the morning, I'd be jetting off to Rome. I slept zero hours that night, left to Rome, an hour behind Athens, and hit the ground running... thinking I'd come back to my room at night and pass the fuck out.
No such luck. I got to the room, got in my Tempur-Pedic bed (for reals. I learned of this hotel with the cool-ass beds last year, and returned this year 'cause FUCK does it feel good to get massaged before going to bed), and tossed and turned ALL MOTHERFUCKING NIGHT. I was a fucking mess... and angry, hungry mess.
I finally got into the swing of things that Wednesday night, when I slept for five hours before my mom and aunt woke me up at three in the morning with their "AnoMALIE... AnoMALIE... are you asleep?" No. I'm fucking bungee jumping! Of course I was fucking asleep, women... fuck!
They'd claim they wouldn't sleep... but their snoring would beg to differ.
"I haven't slept a wink since arriving on this side of the pond!" they'd both say.
For reals? So the snoring is... just... you singing yourself to sleep or something?
The snoring would keep me awake, and their claims of being unable to sleep would bother me too much to sleep.
Then my aunt would allude to "someone snoring last night" and I'd correct her. "Weren't you guys concerned I was dead because I was so silently sleeping?" I'm a fucking corpse when I sleep, don't come at me with suggestions that I snore. Often times I don't even move from my original position all damn night. I fucking die when I go to sleep.
In Paris, I slept like a baby... a baby who had spent all motherfucking day crying for her mom and then knocked the fuck out.
Back in Athens, I would sleep about eight hours, regularly. I would struggle to make it past midnight, then would wake up no later than 7:30AM, like clockwork.
Once it was time for London, two hours behind Athens, I went to bed at 11 and woke up at 5AM, wide awake.
I don't remember dreaming while out on this vacation. Of all the days, I only remember the one dream I had on Christmas eve, which had me waking up drenched in sweat Christmas morning.
It was a most random nightmare, which had me shaking my head the moment I forced myself awake:
I was sitting in my car, idling around, when suddenly Brett Favre started smashing my car with a baseball bat.
I remember jumping out of the vehicle, and staring at him completely bewildered. I saw him angrily running around the car towards me--yelling terrifying obscenities-- and I bolted down the street... still confused as to why this famous stranger wanted to kill me. (Know that I am at my highest level of horror when I run in my dreams. I don't enjoy running in real life... and if something gets me to "bolt" in a dream, I'm having a REALLY bad time)
I managed to escape to an idilic suburban neighborhood, kind of like the one on "Pete and Pete," where I bumped into... the guy I always talk about-- the guy who always pops into my dreams.
He was standing (his usual stance, where he puts his hands in his pockets. That's how I remember him most back in college), observing, not saying a word, as I walked across the street.
We looked at each other, my heart still pounding, scared out of my mind... when good ol' Brett cuts through the neighborhood like some motherfucking bull in Pamplona.
The guy I always talk about and dream about, my former classmate, looks over at me, and only says "You better run."
And that ends my dream.
I woke up confused. STILL scared and confused as fuck.
Why the fuck was I dreaming about a football player, THAT football player of all players?
Then my best friend accidentally clarified it for me:
He played for the Packers.
What state are the Packers from?
Boom. Clarity.
My mind is such a little bitch... my mind on a fucked up sleeping schedule is a manic little cunt.
Thank you for that fucking bizarre-o dream. Next time, can we go back to the more typical shit of this homeboy comforting me in desolate, yet beautiful locations like the beach or hidden forest? That'd be ideal, if you're so intent on bringing him back into mind.
Not this scary bullshit that has me exercising like some fucking olympic athlete.
(LOL. This just reminded me of the first dream he was ever in, where he led me to some rave under the Sun Temple of Teotihuacan... hahahahaha. Good times. Good random times)
No comments:
Post a Comment