Waging Wars

We wage wars everyday.  Most of these wars are indecent but supported, they make us heroes regardless of the many faces of morality. Other wars, the most dangerous ones, are waged against ourselves. It is these conflicts that break us, that change us, that keep us honest or keep us hiding behind an image.

I am doomed to constant battle, because waving the white flag, surrendering,  would mean death.  My heart would go on beating but I would have to stop telling the truth about who I really am, and honestly, I have just gotten started.  I will admit to doing things backwards in the eye of society, I have yet to live up to any expectation that societal standards have set upon me. I will not admit that I have done things wrong.  Some people spend all of their lives trying to be seen as important, to gain some power, and some have even been so naive to convince themselves that they are smarter than others because they have looked up a few facts or have more money. I get it, everyone could "paint by numbers" and the result is this beautiful copied image of something that was created long before you hid it behind colors.  If I can compare my life to paint by numbers, then I suppose I ran out of paint a long time ago. The war I waged against myself was just that.  Fighting against false image.

I once played house, as a young adult.  Houses can look perfect and be quietly filled with rage. I have never hated an image more. To be young and not in love, waiting to be saved.  I caught this part of my life so simply, like going fishing, and pulling out a boot. Except the bait was my vagina and I pulled out a husband. This is when my battle started, I was convinced that I was destine to end up something more than someone's wife. My goal was never to have dinner on the table at six, I have never been obedient. I was hiding behind blonde hair and a tainted diamond. Being tucked behind this image was far harder than waging war.

I could find acceptance again with lack of effort, if I wanted I could find a nice image of a man, with a means of financial support, spend my days playing house, give my vagina a lovely little home. I could scrub the toilet and condemn everyone living with less than what I have. Pretend to be too busy to be myself, take the accomplishments of my spouse as my own, and find acceptance in those who once saw me as this poor little jaded single mother of two. Instead, I wage a war. A beautiful, quiet, sometimes messy war.

These wars, the most dangerous ones, reflect how we respond to the lives of others. Somewhere in time, character of a man was bound silently to how much money he makes. In my time I have seen many, and some of the poorest men have had the most character of all.  I can not condemn the desperate lonely girl who has turned to the government for help, or the man living on the street spending his money on booze instead of food...I do not know what wars these people have waged upon themselves.  Some people have taken on battles that ruin them, that consume them so much, that they just can't bare to lead lives outside of that. I was once that little girl, so tired of fighting that I could not think outside of myself.  Consumed, and consumption in excess can lead to trying to drown yourself in the bathtub.  And lets face it, no one looks pretty bloated and dead. I found strength to fight in the faces of my children, but not everyone has a reason to fight. Some people have dinner on the table every night at six and quiet houses filled with rage.  People go fishing and catch all kinds of things.


It is my constant battle that keeps me honest to what I am on this planet, what I can be to others around me.  In this dangerous war I am reminded that poorness is not a matter of material possessions, it is a lack of morality and character. Not all beautiful pictures are paint by number. Society has the power to do many things, it can set standards and sell wars, but remember that it can also leave you bloated and dead in the bath tub. So, I wage wars every day.

Disappearing Act

I once had a dream that Cleveland disappeared.  The disturbing thing wasn’t that I had the dream, or that my brain created this violent vision where almost everyone I loved vanished. The disturbing part was that no one cared.  As if Cleveland were toilet paper, and what inhabits it were tiny specks of fecal matter being crumpled, flushed, and filtered.  Normally people would call these nightmares; I quit believing in nightmares when I stopped having dreams.  In my dreams, things vanish, people chase me, some part of me is always being threatened, these are the expectations my sub conscious has for me.  Luckily, I don’t have much to live up to.  Some people get dreams where they are flying, since I believe that is unobtainable for me to do, whether by flapping my arms or being in some type of aircraft, I am glad that the recesses of my brain have set the bar fairly low.

I stopped having “dreams” on anxiety’s Birthday.  Anxiety’s conception starts out like a joke… A man walks into a bar, unfortunately for me; the punch line was a gun to my stomach.  This stranger and I had what I like to call mental intercourse, we created something, and what I consider rather typical, I didn’t get off and he left me to clean up the mess.  The thing about anxiety is that he celebrates his birthday, not once a year, but whenever he fucking pleases.  He will hang balloons while I ride on an elevator, blow out the candles when I have to shower whilst home alone, and open his fucking presents in uncomfortable social settings.  Life with unexpected celebrations can sound rather romantic, but most of the time it causes an invisible chaos.  I have, at times, went to the extreme of showering in my bathing suit with mace and my cell phone right next to the bath tub…which is ironic because most people wear their birthday suit in the shower.  Sometimes I wish that I would disappear like Cleveland did, especially on days like anxiety’s birthday, other times I get mad because I think maybe if I vanished like Cleveland no one would care. Then I would be a fleck of fecal matter and frankly no one wants to feel like a piece of shit.

What is funny about Cleveland disappearing and anxiety posting up and using me as a banquet hall is that these disasters often have to be created for people to love each other, or remotely like each other. Buildings have to crash; grandpas have to die for people to be genuinely kind.  On normal days, when buildings are up, and everyone’s grandpas are still alive, we exchange smug looks, curse people out on the road, look right through the homeless guy on the street, use racism as a crutch to hate for any reason we can find possible.  We often forget how tragically close disaster could be to all of us. We are heartless, like the world is high school and every stranger we see is the nerdy girl with the glasses and the right answer.

I like to think that this is why my brain makes Cleveland disappear.  It is my constant reminder that, in all reality, I will most likely never grow wings and be able to fly, but things can always disappear.  Anxiety can have its birthday in anyone’s life at any given moment.  Everyone has dreams, some may not be so romantically horrible, but not everyone can wake up after their dream so happy that Cleveland is still there, that most people that I love didn’t vanish when I closed my eyes.

My Dysfunctional Introduction

Well, here it is, my first blog...so I will start off by telling a little about myself. I am starting this, one, because I love to write and two, because in someway we all need to tell our stories, I just don't have anyone willing to listen. I am a Mother and a daughter and a sister. Which basically means I'm a sleepless, somewhat neurotic look alike of someone else. As much as I should care about politics, I don't. I don't care if Johnny and Joey want to get married, hell, let them, as a divorced woman who am I to judge on the institution of marriage? The only thing I would be mad about is if Johnny looked better in his Jimmy Choo's and Vera Wang remake. Abortion has too many "what ifs." "What if" the girl is under age, "what if" the baby is a product of rape...I'm not going around adopting all of the parent less children of the world but at the same time I don't believe in taking rights away from women. Where does that leave me on the subject? I stay neutral, if someone brings it up I will be the first to "have to use the restroom," I would much rather people think I'm "number two-ingit" than express my non opinions. Are you Republican or Democrat? Would you like to stand in the crooked line on the right, or the crooked line on the left? Now don't get me wrong, I love this country and my rights, but after a day of arguing over who's glass of sprite was bigger, who took the longest in the shower, the dinner that no one likes, I would rather lay down than stand in either crooked line. 
I am one of the weirdos that would rather pickup a book than watch TV. I hate the news for two reasons, one I think they spend too much time selling us a story than reporting the truth and I'mafraid that I will be too naive and fall for it. Two, all the bad things happening stick in my brain, marinate, and my safety starts getting confused. It doesn't matter if there is a serial rapist that lives half way across the country, I will stay up and make sure my doors are locked, hide anything I think could be used as a weapon, including the eleven kitchen knives I own (I have actually waisted many minutes of my life counting them just to make sure no one has stolen one to use against me at a later date) and my straightening iron. Which I'm still not sure how someone would use against me. This is irrational on so many different levels, one that I always assume that if someone is going to break in and hurt me it will be a man, and how many men know what a hair straightener is or how it works? Two, what is he going to do, plug it in, taunt me about using better hair product while waiting the two minutes for it to heat up just to burn me? And what makes me think that I'm so important that someone would even waste their time breaking in to my house, there isn't anything worth stealing in my house, anything that was worth it the kids have found a way to put their mark on it, like dogs pissing on their territory, my children leave dents, or pen marks or carvings. Despite all of this it all becomes rational when i get scared...but next time I'm counting my kitchen knives or hiding my straightening iron I will be sure to spend sometime reflecting on why I am important enough to be harmed and make note of it. So I open a book, sometimes to escape to enjoy an excuse for silence, and other times because I'mafraid that if I turn on the TV that I will either realize that I'm just as dysfunctional as the next big reality TV star, or I will end up spending my night counting knives and hiding hair products.
I'm an attractive single mother of two that gets dates but doesn'tgo on any. The only sex I've seen in the past year is that of two porn star pigeons that do it on the brick wall in front of my house. They seem to taunt me with their song and dance, but then he jumps on top and after a few pecks its finished and I remind myself that she probably didn't get off anyway. I don't believe in thesanctity of marriage, but still catch myself dreaming about the perfect wedding dress, like its written somewhere in my genetic make up. Well its got a vagina, dress it up in satin and lace, walk it down the aisle. I can't find a man that I can stand for longer than two weeks, so why does my brain still insist on diving into these fantasies that in the end would probably make me drowned myself. Everyone is looking for a guarantee, a guarantee that they wont be alone, because we are only human, we strive for companionship. Now the vagina in me wants to buy all of this, that there is a happily ever after, but the dysfunctional girl next door part of me looks at it all as a trade. I will trade you this diamond ring if you do all of the chores, have dinner on the table every night by 6, and fuck me every once and a while. Now I'm sorry if cooking meat loaf and scrubbing the toilet while choking on semen for a few karats doesn't seem like a fair trade to me. I'm not against marriage, to each their own, I know several happily married couples (I've counted three to be exact) still I think there is too much pressure to have the perfect husband, be the perfect couple, have the biggest ring and the best wedding...while johnny and Joey are fighting to head towards the alter I have spent most of my life running away from it.

The last thing that I will tell you about myself is that I am a dedicated Mom. I don't think it takes a husband and wife and a white Pickett fence to have a great family. There is a secret world of who can do it better when it comes to being a Mother, and every childless woman in the world will give you her opinion on how to raise a kid. I don't claim to be an expert, as a parent you go through it learning and making mistakes just about as often as you are teaching right and wrong to your kids. However I will be damned before I listen to some pre-birth vagina about how her kids will never throw a temper tantrum in the middle of a store and how they will breast feed for at least 6 months. All the pre-births think that they are super women living in some god damned romantic comedy. Look in the mirror ladies, last time I checked you weren't June fucking Clever. Until your breasts engorge to look like a freshly healed set of silicone's and your running to the bathroom on you breaks at work to dump a load of milk into the toilet, or you have had to explain yourself to the staff at target when your two year old has hi-jacked a barney toy and held it hostage in his stroller, setting off the alarms when your leaving the store, you don't get to give me advice. At the end of the day we all lay our exhausted heads down to sleep and pray that we didn't do something wrong in the day that might turn our children into the next Ted Bundy. That is the beautiful curse of being a Mother, to spend every minute worrying and trying like hell, and to never know if your doing it right.

So that's it my introduction, maybe now "the dysfunctional girl next door" makes a little more sense, but I'm not too different than anyone else, I'm just writing what most people don't want to say. Exploiting my faults in hope that someone can see the perfect in all of the imperfect, because most people put on a show, dress things up, but these shows aren't real. Life isn't always, big rings and white Pickett fences, sometimes its engorged breasts and stolen barney toys.

Pretty Vagina, Smart Vagina

Pretty as Webster says it: pleasing by delicacy or grace, having conventionally accepted elements of beauty.
Smart: mentally alert, bright.
These aren't two mutually exclusive things so why do we find ourselves falling into only one category? I have heard people say "It is better to be the smartest girl in the room than the prettiest." ( I cant remember who I got this quote from but my guess Is probably a really stupid man with an ugly daughter) Stop. Why can't we be both? Every time you turn on the TV, there it is, the pretty girl that doesn't know the difference between chicken and tuna, the half dressed big breasted girl that runs up the stairs instead of outside in every scary movie we watch, the nerdy girl who can't get a date that always falls hopelessly in love with the jock. There it is ladies, staring back at us, our choices: dressed up, dumbed down and oversexed, or an ugly as shit know it all that will never take leading role with a six figure career. Hmmmm how will I ever choose? Okay it's TV not reality but somewhere on the path to growing up my sister and I were labeled (what I attribute as pathetic attempt to separate us, give us separate and equal self esteem, because growing up we looked very similar) My sister; the smart one, and me: the pretty one. This offers us both a preset of separate questions. Put us in a large group of family, and the conversation of work and success and books will always be had with my sister, I will always get "who made that dress" I find myself screaming in my head " well if I were god damn smart enough to read the label maybe I could tell you!" It goes onto eyeshadow, and then maybe the kids, but I would probably go into fucking cardiac arrest at 30 if my grandmother ever asked me what book I read last. I always wonder what it would be like if my Grandma took me under her wing and tried to get me a job. "What are your qualifications dear" "Well grandma, I can mix a large variety of cocktails, can pick the perfect shade of eyeshadow for any occasion, and I swallow." a set of qualifications fit for a hooker, and not even a high classed one at that. My grandma would probably high tail it to church and confess for me, because for as Catholic as she has always wanted me to be I never finished, or started communion. At some point don't we all take a part of what we hear we are constantly and become it? In a world where pretty is size two and double D boobs what exactly do I have to look forward to? Mornings spent with Dr.90210 getting nipped, tucked, and filled, afternoons eating followed by a refreshing finger down the throat, and evenings spent shopping online. Let's face it, I'm 30, my ass started touching the back of my legs somewhere around the summer of last year, the only topless thing I do is shower, and if bot ox doesn't get cheaper soon I'm thinking about taking out a loan. Pretty only lasts so long (I say that in the voice of the many women I have heard it from) so what happens when I wake up and pretty is in fact gone, I guess I either get drug out back and shot old yell er style or get married. If Cinderella would have started out as a lawyer, met her prince charming and then sued the shit out of her evil step mother and sisters for liable would things be different? Now that is the Walt Disney I would have my daughter growing up to. 

I never claimed to be stupid, I only confessed to taking part in my label. Do I have to walk around reciting the periodic table of elements so when someone asks for the manager and I approach I don't have to hear "Oh are you the owners wife?" Because wouldn't it just be absurd to assume that despite my nice rack and pretty face that maybe I actually know what the fuck I am doing? After all everyone who is anyone knows that you are either a pretty vagina or a smart vagina...right? All I'm asking is if it is possible in a world of airbrushed billboards and silicone and glasses and college degrees, if I can have one labia of each.

The Art of Being Scared

I once called 911 four times in one night. On the second call I actually let the cops in. My life tends to be a little like the movie "Home Alone" minus the comedy, well, and the robbers. I spent a whole night of my life standing at my kitchen window surveying passing cars just to make sure one of them didn't hold a psychopathic killer. When I decided the cars were no threat I convinced myself that there was already someone in my house. Then I starting harassing the 911 operators. The first call I hung up, the second phone call I told the operator that I thought someone was in my house. When she asked why, I couldn't answer. Why the hell did I think someone was in my house? I think I had left a window open that day, and of course if you live in my world, that means that at some point of the day when you weren't paying enough attention, someone climbed in and hid themselves so later they could cut you into pieces, or rape you, or something along those lines. When the cops finally showed up I realized that I should have cleaned up before that second phone call, asked the operator to give me a few minutes, "Can you just tell the police that I need to dust and shove some dirty laundry into the laundry room, I would really hate for someone to see a crime scene in the mess I have going on right now." I remember them searching the whole house and when they decided my house was safe I made them check the ceiling tiles of my basement. At that point, I can only imagine, that the two cops were convinced that I was the only crazy person in my house. They still followed my request, and with the shine of a flash light they left. Maybe that is my problem, I'm always searching for a killer instead of running away from him. My last two phone calls involved some shaking, crying, and me apologizing to the operator, who at this point was more than annoyed, like my phone calls about a crazed non existent person in my house was the reason that McDonald's got her order wrong earlier that day. The more I apologized the more I found myself hoping that if I did die that night that they would take pictures to her of my brutal murder and my grieving family...tell her that if maybe she would have been more attentive to my phone calls then maybe I would still be alive. I'd like to think that if she were little nicer I could have called back the next night, and somehow we could have became friends. She would call me when she was stressed out about all of the horrifying phone calls she had, and I could council her, help her through it somehow. In return she would call to check in on me at night when things were slow, maybe we would even do lunch,start spending holidays together, my kids would call her "auntie (what ever her name was)". Instead, I stopped calling 911. I will make a note to myself to remember to put it in my will that if I'm ever murdered or raped that someone should send pictures to that call center.

I occupy my time counting knives and hiding things like hair straighteners (which I told everyone about in my first blog) I like to hide my camera. That way whoever decides to hurt me cant take video or account the brutality with pictures. I always wake up in the morning and make sure that there aren't any pictures of me sleeping. You never know when some crazed lunatic might take the opportunity for a photo shoot with a victim to be, I make sure to sleep in pajama pants and a sweat shirt just in case this happens. Sometimes I consider doing my hair, or going to bed with a little make up on, a girl hates a bad picture. Pin up curls, fake eyelashes and some lip color, nothing extravagant. Some cutesy pajamas,all white with cherries on them, and maybe some heels, its been a while since Ive had a pedicure. I really should start sleeping with shoes on. My family might even laugh about it later, at family dinners, nearly choking on their food, giggling about the night I died with my Jimmy choo's and cherry pajamas."Oh if only she could have posed," they would all say, sipping wine and scrapping their plates. From now on I will only hide my camera when I don't feel like getting ready for bed. 

I always compare pills before I take them, to make sure no one has tampered with them, slipped in a sleeping pill or something to paralyze me so they could rape me with out signs of a fight. Or even worse kill me and make it look like a suicide, my family would have a fucking coronary if they had to tell their friends I offed myself with a few over the counter pills. BP50, I-2, all pills come with their own combination of letter and number, as long as the whole bottle matches then they are safe to take. Nothing like a late night game of bingo with a bottle of over-the counter pills to end your day. There are some nights when I'm too tired to examine pills, count knives, put on matching pajamas with cherries, so I just sleep. Mornings after nights like these I'm always more thankful to be alive. I would hate it if I woke up dead to realize that if I could have just stayed up a little longer to count knives or hide everyday appliances that I might have made it though the night.

That's the art of being scared I guess. I don't have to sky dive or walk tight ropes, I defeat death every morning in my own little way. We all have our own art, the silly things that make us feel safe. To kids they are stuffed animals or blankets, to adults it maybe another person or a locked door. My safety, which some might say is a little obsessive, comes in the form of eleven knives, bingo with pills, my favorite pair of heels, and hidden hair products.

Broken, Ruined, and Other Synonyms

I remember the day that I spit on the American Dream, wrapped it up in a few squares of two-ply toilet paper, and sent it swirling down the toilet to the land of crappy inhibitions. I was six. It was summer and my Grandma, hardcore but extremely caring, was doing the dishes. Other girls in the neighborhood were dressing their barbies, fixing their hair, and walking them down the aisle. I sat carving nothings into our kitchen table, day-dreaming of illnesses. I wanted nothing more that summer than to have a short summer long affair with cancer. At that age it was easily glorified. Instead of a church wedding I wanted a hospital room. Something about the idea of being wheeled through the corridors of a hospital sounded so romantic to me. I didn't want flowers and a diamond ring, I wanted an adjustable bed, and cartoons all day. Okay, I know, it sounds just a tad fucked up, but I didn't want to die. At that age death is something that happens to you, painlessly in your sleep when you are one hundred years old. You welcome it because you can hardly move and your house is engulfed in the smell of nose bleeds and moth balls. To me there was no difference in me wanting cancer and my childhood friend, Mary Beth, asking God for an atari and pac man. They both seemed unreasonably entertaining, and I knew God wasn't going to give Mary Beth an Atari, but I thought maybe, if I carved enough nothings into the kitchen table God would give me cancer.

Eventually, I traded in my best friend cancer for a box of pads and a training bra. Even though, I thought that protrusions growing from my chest and bleeding from forbidden places were characteristics worthy of a hospital trip, I kept my mouth shut. They didn't make a barbie to recreate that situation, and if Mattell wasn't turning a profit from it you knew it was bad. Although, they should make a hormonally imbalanced doll that rolls its eyes and randomly starts undisputable arguments for anyone that plans on having a baby. Babies are cute, but when your clock is ticking you seem to forget that babies turn into teenagers, and teenagers are like the Jeffery Dahmer of the child raising experience. Pint size little cannibals, mutilating you with their outbursts and bad decisions, and then right when you think you will get peace they eat away at your patience. Just like an abuser, you can't get enough of them, because even if they are pissed and yelling, at least they are communicating. 

I never wanted a picket fence and 2.5 children. You just have to keep painting picket fences and .5 of a child couldn't be much help around the house. Which half of the child does America want you to have anyway. The half that constantly spews beautiful nothings out of their mouth, even whilst preforming the simplest of tasks, or, well the other half. Classic tale of American society, creating a dream that is not viable or reasonably obtainable. I got the wedding and the husband. I never searched for it. It was hurdled at me, at a high speed, and with some odd reflex that all women have in their vagina, I just caught it. Like catching a foul ball at a baseball game so it doesn't break your face. Walking down the aisle I was so pissed off at God because Beth got her atari, and I never got my cancer. Instead, I was walking with my own two feet, guided down the aisle in a ridiculously white dress, which was tainted long before I bought it. My hair pinned up with baby's breath poking into my scalp- the epitome of the trashy early 90's bridezilla. A year later, I said fuck you to ataris and cancer, and got a divorce. Now that is something to thank god for.

I know my parents, MY society just wanted me to fit in this mold of perfection...people want guarantees, but as hard as my parents tried, at six I started breaking tiny pieces off myself and cramming them into as many different ventricles I could find in my imagination. I decided at a young age that I would never fit fully into one place, instead small pieces of me would fit oddly into everywhere. As great as the American dream sounds, I never wanted to be boxed in by a fence. Marriage was never a guarantee to be unconditionally loved...diamonds were never my best friend anyway. I learned the hard way that sex is free but divorce isn't, and I have enough laundry to do already. Some people might see me as broken, bruised, or jaded, but that isn't true. I just found my happiness in a different dream that started with carving nothings and praying for cancer.

The Habit of Being Awake

On nights I can't sleep, which is basically every night, I like to make lists of likes and dislikes. I then compare myself against the lists I create to see how many of the "dislike" column I do, and make note to stop. Sleeplessly, last night, I decided I like dreams where I am eating ice cream. I quickly decided right after, that I disliked telling people this because I was either going to sound anorexic or fat, although I couldn't figure out which one more people would side with. The dislike column tends to weigh a little heavier, its always easier to find things you don't like than do. I detest the word moist, or even worse the combination of "moist towelette," which people always seem to over enunciate. My skin crawls when women say their favorite movie is the notebook, which I fell asleep watching on five different occasions before I ever made it through the movie. It's possible that this is a dislike because I am afraid my lack of interest, or critical analysis of the movie, means that there is something wrong with my vagina and my tear ducts. I came to the same decision after watching Titanic, instead of shedding a tear, I evaluated the situation and came to the conclusion that boat travel was something that I am strongly against. Along with these I also don't like: fluorescent orange, duct tape (for several different reason but mainly because I consider it a weapon), uneven numbers, the amount of time if added up I would waste in my lifetime doing my nails if I were to consistently keep up with them, bathrooms decorated with a sea shell theme, mainly because I have never found the common connection between relieving your body of waste and the beach, Tosh.0, small trees, the never ending battle between blonds and brunettes, people that display kitchen knives, hugging upon introduction instead of shaking hands, wooden baskets, the texture of several different materials, and the impending doom I feel taking a bath with any electrical appliance in my house left out in the open. Maybe this is just a dysfunctional girls way of counting sheep, but I like to see it as some type of self reflection. Before actually making a final attempt to close my eyes I decide that I will throw away all of my children's fluorescent orange erasers, more or less because I find the color a sign of caution, and not suitable to correct errors in math or language arts. I will keep the movie the Notebook displayed knowing that I will never watch it, and quietly condemn Nicholas Sparks for making me wonder if there is in fact something actually wrong with my vagina. I won't trust a single person that displays their kitchen knives, I will ignore the duct tape because I refuse to keep it in my house, cut my nails short, make a note to start hiding my electrical appliances before bathing, introduce myself to people with a suitable distance between us, write a letter to Tosh.0 letting him know that I disapprove of what he thinks comedy is, hold any bladder or bowel movement where ever sea shells are involved,make a solemn vowel to myself to never buy or accept anything that says "blonde's are better" or "blonde's have more fun", and finally not to leave my self stuck in any situation where I might have to basket weave, prune small trees, rub uncomfortable material, or end a counting sequence with an uneven number. At this point, its four in the morning, I've drank two glasses of wine. I do indeed before falling asleep throw away the fluorescent orange eraser sitting out on the dining room table, and display "The Notebook" right between "Sleeping with the Enemy" and "The Stepford Wives" which I find morbidly fitting, make a quick mental note of what I would say to Tosh.0 if he were in the room with me, decide that I have spent my time productively making myself a better person and fall asleep.

This is the habit of being awake, my screwed up little way to count sheep. I'd like to think that when left with your own thoughts you all have these strange little inner dialouges with yourself, but I'm going to assume that the majority of you are going to start suggesting sleep pills...and as long as they aren't flourescent orange or prescribed in odd numbers I might consider taking them.