This is the 3rd (4th?) night in a row we’ve hung out.
You dropped by completely unannounced expecting me to party these nights away with you…
Maybe you were really looking for Snooki and got lost on a detour that ended at my crib, I don’t know.
What I do know is that I like to swathe myself in my cozy comforter, a cumulus nimbus cloud of pillows and snore my way through dreams that star bad boys on Harley’s and in work boots.
And be jarred awake as my cheek starts to swim in the cold drool that’s formed the Great Lakes on my pillow.
I like to sleep. Soundly. Undisturbed.
In fact the only people allowed to disturb my slumber are my children…and that’s only because well…they’re my children.
And while I love Jesus, I gotta be honest and say I’m not ready to meet Him yet due to a sleep deprived heart attack.
But I digress….
Sleep. I need it because without it, I go skyrocketing off to another galaxy…one full of euphoric gas, rainbows, talking unicorns, million dollar gift cards to Target, and other glorious things one feels as they begin to tango with hypomania.
As fun as the initial moments of hypomania are, I really prefer to be on the level side of things, so I’d really like you to leave. You’re dangerous… like playing with firecrackers dangerous, and I’d like to keep my body parts intact and spare my family and friends a spin on the bipolar merry-go-round.
I’m sorry but staring off into the darkness while everyone else is knee deep in REM cycles isn’t my idea of fun – nor is the crash that comes after the high.
You’re just too much of a trigger. I can’t have you around. You’ve got to go.
So please free the Sandman from wherever you’re holding him hostage and hit the road. Bother someone who can actually make you work for them and not against ‘em.
Consider this a warning. If you fail to heed this warning, expect Ambien & Trazadone to pay you a visit. They’re like the Chuck Norris’ of sleep meds.
I’m not afraid to use them.