Insomnia

A few minutes ago, I was ensconced in my bedroom, reading a nice thick book of historical diseases, their origins, symptoms and affects on society. Now I'm downstairs, gingerly picking my way across a keyboard, trying to express how I feel about the fact that instead of blissfully slumbering, I am, as always, awake. Lately, things have been getting interesting. It's as though my body subconsciously senses the upcoming trials and tribulations of waking up in the morning, and is doing practice runs. One day I wake at five a.m. The next, a more modest seven a.m. All this, and I still manage to only lapse into glorious unconsciousness at around three a.m. Charming.

I write my dearest Christian letters, I burn incense, I read, I embark on perilous journeys of the mind. I write movie scripts, on AIM, in detail. I create terrible Secret Societies devoted to bothering the conservative neighbors and viciously contested Scrabble matches. Sometimes I get in touch with my inner Pagan and attempt a spell or two. Then I wonder if it's fair to classify myself as Wiccan, when I make fun of it so often as being a collection of moonbats. Then I resist the urge to take night-time cold medicine.

Maybe heat exhaustion and physical exertion will grant me sleep. Northridge is the hottest place in the Valley, and I'll be dragging around large books and attempting to not die whilst learning Aikido, come the 25th of August. I'll also apparently be wrangling small children, as my mother has determined I am suitable to work as an aide in her pre-school. Hooray, money! Boo, children. Maybe I can sleep then, as an escape from juice-stained faces and filthy hands.

In the meantime, won't somebody please surprise me with a phonecall? I know that only a few people read this, but come on. If you've got my number and it's past one a.m. I'm probably awake and very, very bored. Give a ring to the cell. Break me out of my cell.