I’ve decided that “sleep” is a woman. Why? Well, she’s moody and irritable, and she just stops talking to me for no reason. The current time is 1:39 a.m. on Sunday morning, and I’m on my laptop because sleep is mad at me for some reason. I didn’t do anything to her. I’m always very nice to her. I don’t drink too much before bed, and I try to get to bed around the same time every night. I have a good pillow, and my room is nice and cool. But is that good enough for her? Nope! She’s just decided that she didn’t like something, so now I’m banished to the couch.
At least I was productive, right? I stayed up and wrote reviews for other writers on Scribophile. If I smoked and had two fingers of scotch, I’d pretty much be a cliche at this point. Insomniac writer. Pretty redundant, right?
And now my house is making funny noises! I’m sitting here in the dark, with my laptop screen on the lowest brightness, just hoping to get sleepy. But my heart races from an unfamiliar noise, and I think about shining my iPhone flashlight toward the noise, but I don’t. Half of me thinks, “There’s nothing there; don’t be silly.” The other half thinks, “Of course there’s something there, but it can’t get you as long as you pretend it’s not there.” But I don’t have any covers to pull over my head, and my feet are hanging off the chair. Since I was a kid, I always believed the monster couldn’t get me as long as everything was covered and my feet were on the bed.
So on that note, maybe I should head back to bed. Even if I can’t sleep, at least it’s safer there.