Sleep is for the Working Class

I refused to acknowledge my bedtime. That happens. I don't know what I did all those hours. Television was involved. Let's see. I watched the last three episodes of Farscape season three -- two-thirds a trinity. There were TLC specials on Lizzie Borden and Area 51, and there were Thank You cards with fancy cursive. Lots of curliques. Peppered with music videos and generous portions of "Unfaithful." 6pm-2am is a blur.

I remember that "Unfaithful" got stupid half-way through, but I couldn't stop flipping back to it. I can't say no to Diane Lane.

So now, poor me, the cats have demanded their morning meal by jumping on my face and raking their claws into my books. Hellish demons, cats. I am completely within their power. They're sleeping hunger off somewhere, minutes after two bowls filled with chow mysteriously disappeared... I fear they've unionized.

What did I do yesterday? I engaged in the big time suck that is Web Surfing. I bought John Wayne stamps because they reminded me of "The Preacher" graphic novels. (They look real sharp on the Thank You cards.) I played Xenosaga on the PS2. And I went to the bank to set up an automatic transfer between accounts so that maybe I won't die in the gutter. That's about as close to a formal New Year's resolution as I get. Try not to die in the gutter. Again.

Here we are. My last day of pretend freedom. I guess that means I'm shackled to the laundry box... or the sink hole.

Or maybe I should sleep off the dregs of my insanity.