Lately, as I sit up watching late-nite TV, I stop paying attention to the show itself and concentrate on the advertising to try and work out what demographics advertisers think are watching.
Because as a concerned global citizen, I feel very strongly that we should all do our part to help shore up Greece’s crumbling economy. Also, I love a good cocktail.
It’s 4:08, and I’m wide awake. Perhaps it’s time to turn to the internet for some amusement, or for the provocation of thoughts, n’est-ce pas? Perhaps you too are awake, and have a similar need.
It’s a thing, really. I suppose it could be worse; I could be facing a Buridan’s ass, or some other whimsically-named dilemma that sounds like a Magic: The Gathering card. Not that I know anything about those.
Tuesday night insomnia: Sour, mineral tang of uncoated pills. Tepid tapwater washes it away. Soothing drone of informercials; snoring dogs. Counting rich mosaic of ceiling cracks.*
Time sure does fly when you’re a Pinterest-addicted insomniac cripple. Between browsing photos of overly-designed interiors and watching infomercials for Susan Lucci’s Malibu Pilates, it’s like there’s no time at all between the hits of Oxycontin!
And so, after a scant two and a half weeks of unbearable pain, the mystery is solved. I am filled both with profound relief, and with the urge to climb to the top of a mountain and yell, “SUCK IT, DOCTORS.”
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