Why isn't it called a platinum lining?

Insomnia can be a huge pain in the ass. Whether it's brought about because of overwhelming worries, or because of nightmares, or because of your obnoxious dogs barking at invisible, late-night pedestrian trolls, insomnia is widely viewed as an all-around bitch.

It's a funny thing, though. As irksome, as frustrating, and as terribly dull as late nights spent by your lonesome can be, I do (every so often) find my evenings spent awake to be somewhat refreshing. Clearly I don't mean refreshing in the "well-rested" sense, but more so in the "I've spent this forced consciousness being at least a little bit productive, which has to be far more productive than laying in bed drooling on myself and having occasional, nonsensical mumble-conversations with my own subconscious brain" refreshing. Which is pleasant, I suppose.

Now, don't be fooled. There are times in which you'd love nothing more than to use your insomnia to be the teensiest bit productive, but you're not quite able. For example, I have this insatiable desire to start working on a concept I recently came up with. I want to sketch with graphite and felt tips and charcoal and colors, and maybe even paint. I want to put these ideas onto paper. And, in a strange but positive turn of events, I'm here, awake and in my house, with not a shred of an obligation on my schedule.

And then... oh, how the gods must laugh maniacally... and then my fucking wrist decides to act like a douche. I occasionally have joint troubles, by the way. But the most ridiculous time for me to have issues with my right wrist is, of course, the exact time I have sudden inspiration to try my hand (har, har) at sketching again, and fleshing out a new concept, and creating motivated ART.

So I'm sitting here, staring at my miscellaneous art supplies as they taunt me, wearing a wrist brace that makes me feel retarded, and slowly tapping each key on my macbook, one at a time, using only my left index finger.

Insomnia fucking blows.

At least SOMEONE in this house is getting some sleep.

I know how the aliens in War of the Worlds felt

I have spent the past week more sick than I've been in a while. As a kid, my dad would hear me whine about how I HAD to miss school because I felt like shit, and then he would tell me that I could absolutely stay home... if I was missing a limb or had a fever. Well, I never lost a limb, and I almost NEVER had a fever. I can't remember the last time I had an actual fever (aside from my hospital trips due to infected kidneys). However, my entire spring break was spent with a fever of around 102. Bullshit.

I still have all kinds of muck trying to suffocate me by taking up residence in my lungs, but I'm determined to kick its ass the way deathbed cries of, "Hoax!" kicked the ass of the Loch Ness Monster (that poor, prehistoric bastard).

You know what sucks the absolute most about being sick? The awareness that anyone you actually infect is then your responsibility (once you're better and they're sick... like that ancient Chinese code where you have to care for someone once you save their life... right? That does exist, yes?). Because you know that they will always make their illness seem worse than yours (despite the fact that it's the same fucking illness). And you know it'll ALWAYS last longer than your illness (even though you have an immune disorder, and had the same illness they do... because, you know, they probably didn't catch an entirely different disease than the one you had, um, from you).

I guess that I tend to lose that nurturing instinct for a good two to three weeks after getting over being sick.

Okay, I'm going to go rest. You should go rest, too. But, you know, not too much. Because if you're feeling under the weather, fuck you. Suck it up. Quit your bitching.

All this aggression is making my lungs hurt. Mega owies.

xoxo

Death by sleeping poorly

I'm slowly but surely dying (more so than normal, I mean).

My neck and right shoulder are KILLING ME. Why, you ask? Well, I tend to hunch over my work, or my studies, or the canvas I'm working on. On Tuesdays and Thursdays I carry a backpack and a portfolio around on my shoulder. I don't have an in-between in my Honda Fit to rest my arms on. I sleep on my side, in the fetal position.

All of these things are working together to kill me, I'm sure.

So between that and the THREE exams I have this week, I've been short of time/energy/patience to post as of late. Forgive me, find me amusing, and smile. Or, you know, get the fuck over it (because at least your neck/shoulder/back isn't trying to KILL YOU).

xoxo, etc.,

Me.