The Worst Part Of Insomnia Is The Fucking Lack Of Sleep

Seeing as how I’ve slept only 6 hours of the last 96 or so, a coherent post is completely out of the question. I mean, let’s face it: even when I am getting something approaching a normal amount of rest, I’m still barely cognizant. So I figured, “Fuck it.” As long as I’m being unintelligible, I might as well go all the way. So I’m drinking.

By the way, there’s nothing unhealthy about drinking alone on a Wednesday night to ease emotional pain is there?

Nah. Besides, I wouldn’t drink alone. The Lord counts as a person, right?

So here we go: the best I can manage being drunk and incapable of lucid thought. I’m not sure I’m capable of being cute and funny. Maybe I’ll have better luck tomorrow.

Each blink sticks my eyelids closed. It’s a sickly-sweet sensation that slides up my skull. I can’t sleep—so blinking will have to do. It’s my guilty pleasure, and my secret sin. Some people shoot heroin. I blink.

I’m clever. It’s not an admirable quality. It’s a hobby, like cross-dressing. It allows me to sneak by and fuck for money, all without exposing myself. Love me, without loving me and don’t kiss me on the lips…or heart.

Today I was accused of being a cold-hearted bastard by a woman who shared my bed once. Just because she’s incorrect doesn’t make her wrong. Maybe just unobservant. Because I don’t lie…especially to those who lie next to me. I’m a baby boy with a flame-thrower. A puppy with jaws of steel.

Lies. I’m nothing so calculated or considered. I’m a lake. When you blow on me and warm my surface, I distort the truth. But when you turn your back, I glass over and reflect the world back with perfect clarity. A mirror perfectly crafted by nature to depict every fault, flaw, and failing. And who the fuck wants to see that when it’s easier to be clever? Or a cross-dresser?

I read back on my words with nothing but contempt. Life is full of unfortunate souls unburdening themselves to no one in particular. And now I’ve become yet another. But here’s the damnedible part: I reflect back at myself. A never-ending series of mirrors, magnifying every fault back to myself for eternity…or till I crack.

Fuck this. I’m off to have another drink. Nothing else seems to help.