To me sleep is like a wonderfully charming but elusive and shit friend. I constantly make plans with it, which I look forward to immensely but it cancels on me ALL the time, leaving me lurking with nothing to do. On the occasions when we do hang, it is so bloody good, that I forgive it immediately. Until the next time, when I am furious and in complete disbelief that it has done it to me AGAIN.
My insomnia has been pretty bad as of late. When the seasons change, I am kept up all night (Darwin – explanation please?) So spring might be coming on the scene, but there is no bloody spring to my step – I am far too frickin’ tired.
I am currently reading the unbelievably brilliant works of Dorothy Parker, who clearly suffered from the same thing. This made my insomniac and exhausted self laugh A LOT so I thought I’d share it…
And what suggestion has anyone to murmur as to how I am going to drift lightly back to slumber? . . . I really can’t be expected to drop everything and start counting sheep, at my age. I hate sheep. Untender it may be in me, but all my life I’ve hated sheep. It amounts to a phobia, the way I hate them. I can tell the minute there’s one in the room. They needn’t think that I am going to lie here in the dark and count their unpleasant little faces for them; I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t fall asleep again until the middle of next August. Suppose they never get counted — what’s the worst that can happen? If the number of imaginary sheep in this world remains a matter of guesswork, who is richer or poorer for it? No, sir; I’m not their scorekeeper. Let them count themselves, if they’re so crazy mad after mathematics. Let them do their own dirty work. Coming around here, at this time of day, and asking me to count them! And not even real sheep, at that. Why, it’s the most preposterous thing I ever heard in my life.