Insomnia

The clock is laughing at me tonight, playing a very sick prank.

I went to bed at 12:30. Notice that I am still in bed, but not sleeping. Realize, of course, that I was actually tired around 11:30 and would have saved myself a lot of trouble by just going to bed then. But no, I had to stick around and watch the end of Jersey Shore.

I could have also saved myself some trouble by just turning off my computer. I really wasn't doing anything on it, and I could have had some wonderful sleep if I hadn't checked Facebook. Yes, another post tangentially related to Facebook. Like it or not, it is a significant part of most college student's lives.

The irony of all this is that today I bought a new bed specifically for me. I picked it out in the mattress store because of it's cushy firmness, meant to bring me a wonderful (and supported) night's sleep.

I'm not sure if sleep will come to me tonight. I've never pulled an all-nighter and this would be a really really stupid thing to not sleep over. But then again, my sleep schedule of late has been horrific, always getting up early. This is just the definition of getting up as early as possible.

The thing is, I am tired. I can feel it. My eyes are starting to get all droopy and I just feel miserable staying up to type this. But if I were to roll over and try to go to sleep all I can do is think about him and think about my life and think about all the possible places where I could have fucked up and just think about how miserable I feel and how everytime I think about that stupid picture I want to stab someone in the eye with an ice pick. Myself being included in that "someone" - I don't really differentiate.

So I try to think of other things to think about but, just as all the roads led to Rome, all my thoughts meander back to him. And the more I think about him, the more anxious I get and the more I can't sleep.

So here it is, ten more minutes have passed by. Ten more minutes of my insanity keeping me from resting. I'm hoping that by writing this it will help me to finally fall asleep, but I'm not completely convinced of that. After all, it was at 12:30 that I decided to go to bed to just put off thinking about it until the morning.

Perhaps if I leave on my music I will fall asleep? Currently listening to Dark Side of the Moon because it is one of the few albums where I concentrate on the music and not the lyrics. Lyrics, of course, making me think and we all know where this thinking thing ends up.

I think I'm going to try again. Try this whole falling asleep thing. Hopefully it will work out. Like a few other things in my life, hopefully it will work out.

My inner dialogue today

The following is a transcription of my inner dialogue.

What? Oh. Hello, there, Unnecessary Paranoia. How are you? Yes, yes, all that about everyone out to get me, yes, I understand. Me? I was doing quite fine until you showed up, actually getting quite a bit of packing done. What are you here about again? Oh right, the unanswered text message. I'm sure everything's fine, he probably saw it too late to respond... No, I'm pretty sure he's not cheating on me... uh huh, uh huh, yeah I really don't want to deal with this nonsense, I don't believe any of it. Oh, you saw a cryptic Facebook post? I mean, really, a Facebook post is your evidence, it could mean absolutely anything. What the... you think he's in jail?! How the hell did you infer that? Have you been talking to Imagination again?

*The sound of screaming breaks through the air.*

Oh crap, there goes Uncontrollable Panic. You see what you've done? Yeah, now I have to go calm her down... oh, please, it's not my fault she's run rampant these past few weeks, that's external circumstances that have got her on edge. Control it? She's called "Uncontrollable Panic" for a reason. Dammit, how the hell am I going to calm her down? Yeah, I suppose I could text him. But it needs to be cool, calm, collected. No, I don't know where Relaxed is, I haven't seen her in months. Yeah, you're right, she probably did run off with Ability To Sleep, the skank. Ugh, I really need to get you guys all sorted out one of these days, you emotions really like to run amok, don't you?

Have I texted him yet? No, I haven't, take a chill pill... oh jeez, you're not going to leave me alone until I do, are you? Oh, you're not going to leave until he texts me back. You're a real bastard, Paranoia, you know that? Yeah, thanks for all this. Concentration On Work is going to be real pissed at you - yes, of course he still exists! Hey, that procrastination was all Romance's fault and you know it!

Stupid emotions. All up in my business.

Weapons of Math Instruction

So, my grandmother is in town this week, and there's pros and cons to that; one of the pros being, of course, that her presence sparked what is about to become this blog post. See, she's sharing the bathroom with me and while I was brushing my teeth today I saw the comb she left beside the sink. It was a nondescript comb made of plastic, unadorned except for the word "UNBREAKABLE" - I suppose my grandmother's wispy white hair has vanquished many a weak comb in her day. Regardless, it reminded me of a certain conclusion that I came to in high school - math is dangerous.

This startling conclusion came one day while working on some sort of group project, you know, one of those that required an awful lot of work to get a small bit of pointless information across. Said useless project required the use of many arts and crafts tools, including a straight-edge owned by my friend. It was a transparent red ruler, of the normal length, with the words "Non-shatter" printed on it.

Immediately, I tested the ruler's flexibility, finding it to be somewhat bendable. I then began to bang the ruler on many nearby surfaces, with the usual respect that I have for other people's property, testing the validity of the non-shatter claim.

Seeing this behavior that would have eventually resulted in the demise of his ruler, my friend cautiously asked me, aware that I had a blunt object in my hand, "What are you doing?"

"Well, it's unbreakable!"

He winced as I hit the ruler hard on the desk, then said, "It says non-shatter not unbreakable. You can still break it."

I looked down at the ruler, frowning slightly. Non-shatter? What kind of ruler shattered, I pondered, envisioning flying shards of plastic as the ruler broke on impact. Why in the world would you need a ruler that didn't shatter? "So what would happen when it broke?" I asked, my ever-questioning engineering tendencies popping up even in high school.

My friend shrugged. "Just snap in half I guess."

I held the ruler up to the light, inspecting it. "So it would be like this long jagged break?" My mind analyzed the meaning of this. "Dude, you could use it as a shiv!"

My friend stared at me, obviously not coming to the same conclusion with the same rapidity as myself. "Um..."

"Yeah! Just imagine! You could get it delivered to you in prison - just a ruler, right? Well, then all you need to do is snap it in half and - BAM - you can shank somebody right there!"

My friend laughed nervously and quickly changed the subject, taking advantage of the next possible opportunity to wrest the non-shattering ruler/shiv from my hand.

Later that night I got to thinking - forget a file, a basket of school supplies was the best thing to give to someone in prison. Previously I and a set of friends had established, during a painfully useless drafting class, that a metal protractor could be used as a perfect hand-to-hand weapon, provided you held the tool by the horizontal bar and sharpened the curvy part. And, of course, as a grade schooler we had been sternly warned not to fool around with the pointy end of a compass, for it could cause a painful puncture wound.

Actually, in a pinch, even a simple mechanical pencil could be used as a weapon. There was this one kid on the bus in elementary school who got viciously stabbed in the palm by another kid with a lead pencil. (No, this actually happened. Like, that's not even the hyperbole that you've come to know and love from me. The kid had a frickin' hole in his hand from the lead. People don't believe me when I tell them I'm from the suburban ghetto.)

What does all of this mean? That I have an overactive imagination? No, silly. That math, and the tools used to enforce its horrible policies, is incredibly dangerous. The best way to defeat it, of course, is to learn its intricacies, allowing you to know its weaknesses. So the next time you're surprised by a constant in a dark alley - BAM - derive that mofo!

And for those wondering, yes, this is why I decided to go into a math-heavy field. Math must be vanquished!

Cough syrup is the most disgusting thing on Earth

There are few things I hate more in this world than cough medicine.

If you happened to be in the same room as me as I was typing this, you would have seen me shudder horribly as I wrote that last sentence. I have a serious problem with cough syrup.

To demonstrate this aversion, I will describe a general administration of the medicine. First, it begins, believe it or not, with a cough.

Generally it begins with a small tickle in the back of the throat, nothing major. The tickle begins to scratch a bit, and a few small coughs are released to clear the throat a little, NOT because I'm sick in any way, shape, or form. Then the coughs get a little more steady, perhaps a good series or so to clear the lungs. It'll be done soon, don't worry. Then the coughs get more prolonged and more forceful, the type of coughs that strangers begin to edge away from you in a crowd, despite the fact that I am quite obviously not sick. At this point, close friends will likely make fun of me and then suggest that I take some medicine, at which point I will vehemently declare that I am NOT sick, that this is just a for a day, and I already feel better than I did previously, so why should I take any sort of medicine. Generally this is said so fiercely that said friends back away slowly and then proceed to ignore the developing hacking cough. It's only when it sounds like I'm beginning to try to cough up my entire lung when my parents (one or the other, it doesn't matter which) step in and declare:

"You're taking cough medicine."

(And, before I get any farther, please remember that this is not me as a child. This is me as a functioning adult, scared out of my wits by cherry flavored syrup.)

"NOOOOOOOO! I'M FINE!" I yell hoarsely, the frenzied scream only aggravating my lungs, sending me into a hacking attack. This sort of behavior only fuels my parents case, their eyes looking at me accusingly. They reach into the medicine cabinet and take out the poison medicine.

At this point I must leave the room, as the sight of the bottle is enough to send me into slight convulsions. Even now, at the mere thought of the hellish mixture being forced upon me, I'm getting twitchy, looking for any possible exit from the room. But, as it is my parents who are giving it to me, there's not really anywhere I can hide. So I sit, waiting in a way that is probably akin to waiting for the electric chair, except I am condemned to a much worse fate - death by cough syrup.

So then my parent comes in, holding the dreaded plastic cup with the dreaded bright red concoction. I take the cup, hand trembling slightly, and stare at it, wondering how I'm going to be able to get it down.

For the record, I have thrown up cough syrup before. I told my dad it was because I was sick - he thought I was being overdramatic. It was probably a toss-up.

So, I'll hold the dinky little plastic cup for a little while - the exact time depends on my intestinal fortitude of the day and how many times my parent has sighed and/or made sarcastic comments. I'll steel myself up for it, tell myself multiple times that it'll be worth it, I'll feel better, it won't taste that bad this time. All lies, but necessary for the deed. Finally, I just take the cup and knock it back, imagining that I'm taking a shot of pretty much any other liquid.

Most cough syrups are cherry flavored. I think it's mislabeled. It really ought to say baby poop-barf flavored. I cannot stand the taste. I literally shudder as I take it, and I'm sure my face is scrunched up in a most unlovely way. After swallowing the disgusting substance (and making sure that my stomach won't reject it), I thrust the cup into my parent's hand and quickly gulp down a glass of water, trying to wash away the toxic taste. I won't lie, sometimes there's tears in my eyes afterwards, the whole episode being so traumatic. I glare at my parents, my face contorted from the abhorrent syrup that my taste buds are still processing, and I quickly leave the room to sulk.

After about an hour, when I've finally been able to calm down and suppress the recent horrors, my parents always come around and, noticing the echoing silence after a few days of ringing coughs, ask if I think the medicine helped.

Oh no. I'm never admitting that.