Sleepless

Did I survive my trip to New Orleans or not?  Hard to tell.  Especially when a delayed plane lands me with only three hours to spare before my nasty 12 hour shift at my retarded day job. Then, dragging myself home after that first day back, encountering an old friend at my front door who’s ripped on weed and wine and demands an insane evening that lasts till 4am.  (I could have said no, but I’m a weak man.)

It all feels like a weird dream at this point.  Certainly, my bed seems like some lost fantasy land.

Of course, now I’m in the habit of updating GS, so I’m sitting here at work watching the clock and thinking, hey, I should write something.  Like an ode to soft pillows, and not having to wake up in the morning.  I’m putting everything off, though. I’ve taken a personal day Friday, so I just have to survive the rest of today, and a 12 hour shift Thursday, then I can…spend three days catching up on book publishing nonsense.  Because the perfect way to recover from exhaustion is repetitive motion syndrome!

Stuff envelopes…print fliers…write wheedling emails to review people.  Hiiii!  Did you get the boooook??!  OH GOD! THE VOICES ARE BACK!

A rare weekday off means phone calls, too!  I have lots of people to call.  Like my grandfather who, at last report, went insane and bought a house and land.  Nobody knows where the money’s coming from, but he’s living large now.

His last communication was with my uncle, where he called up and screamed, “What’s bigger than a doublewide but just as cheap? A house!” Then he hung up.  I received an early AM voicemail shortly before where he was talking about furniture:  “All a man needs is a chair and a microwave.  And maybe you can help me renew my Netflix subscription?”

A house means I’ll have to hear the old There’s no excuse for not visiting thing.  No…it’s the same excuse.  You’re 350 miles away.  And I’m really busy lying on the floor of my kitchen talking to vodka wraiths, which is my only response to life when I work seven days a week.  I can’t wait till winter, when my seasonal weekend job stops dead for three months.  Then I can sit out on the porch, shivering, and pretend that I’m free.   And probably still talk to vodka wraiths, because I’ve been talking to myself quite a bit lately.  Which is a great way to get a seat to yourself on the train, so I plan to keep it up.  Maybe develop a few new personalities.  “No, Roger!  Give me back my bag of urine!” twitch