Wednesday, November 02, 2005
My Chemical Romance
So last night I took a sleeping pill before bed. I did this because I had enough caffeine yesterday to kill a small mammal (such as Jennifer Love Hewitt) and in those circumstances my brain tends to minutely consider the intricacies of the latest Laguna Beach, obsess over whether the receptionist in marketing likes me, or review every last detail of the 7th grade band trip to Peoria rather than sleep. As planned, the pill knocked me out faster than Ron Artest or any mention of phrase "sovereign immunity." I dreamt that I was meeting Noam Chomsky.
Unfortunately, Noam and I never really got together, because my sleep disorder kicked in while I was still on my way to the Applebee's (that's where Noam wanted to go; he has very simple tastes), and I woke up in an utter irrational panic. The kind where you think there are bees in your hair and zombies attacking your Yugo. We're talking Ann Coulter Crazy here.
So I had to take my special sleep disorder pills, which come with a big warning that you shouldn't mix them with other drugs, which, it turns out, they really mean. Because today I feel like they've opened a new CTA line in my brain and hired a chain gang to staff it. Which I'm not even sure makes sense. But frankly, that's the least of my worries.
Maybe if I crawl behind the copier I can get a little bit of rest.
So last night I took a sleeping pill before bed. I did this because I had enough caffeine yesterday to kill a small mammal (such as Jennifer Love Hewitt) and in those circumstances my brain tends to minutely consider the intricacies of the latest Laguna Beach, obsess over whether the receptionist in marketing likes me, or review every last detail of the 7th grade band trip to Peoria rather than sleep. As planned, the pill knocked me out faster than Ron Artest or any mention of phrase "sovereign immunity." I dreamt that I was meeting Noam Chomsky.
Unfortunately, Noam and I never really got together, because my sleep disorder kicked in while I was still on my way to the Applebee's (that's where Noam wanted to go; he has very simple tastes), and I woke up in an utter irrational panic. The kind where you think there are bees in your hair and zombies attacking your Yugo. We're talking Ann Coulter Crazy here.
So I had to take my special sleep disorder pills, which come with a big warning that you shouldn't mix them with other drugs, which, it turns out, they really mean. Because today I feel like they've opened a new CTA line in my brain and hired a chain gang to staff it. Which I'm not even sure makes sense. But frankly, that's the least of my worries.
Maybe if I crawl behind the copier I can get a little bit of rest.
