Wednesday, February 06, 2008


Having a chest cold just complicates an old problem.

It's one thing to lie in bed, eyes wide open, neurons firing like guerillas, wondering when I can finally get to sleep. It's another to have all that going on with my chest making noises like a flatulent, emo teenager. Seriously, my lungs are making sounds that make Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! sound tonal and organized. Take that with the coughing and hacking next to ma soleil, who is a light sleeper, and I just give up. So here I am. Blogging, listening to Power Windows by Rush. Thinking that the Barenaked Ladies are poignantly correct.

This ticks me off pretty badly. It's not like I'm writing my great American novel in these wide-awake hours, away from my girl. I'm watching Robot Chicken, practicing magic or reading. But those who know me know I am not a morning person. Sleeping pills? Forget it. Paula has a theory: I fight the effect that they create. I believe she's right. She usually is.

I wish I could get into bed before 11:30 or midnight, so tonight, I'm acting on a bold plan. I'm staying up all night, so that when midnight rolls around, I'll be beat and compelled to get my butt in bed. Here's hoping it works.

For those who are curious, this is my favorite Robot Chicken moment:

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