Dear 4:00 a.m.,
We need to talk. This is just not working out, mostly because I think you’re trying to kill me.
Listen, if you would just wake me with dreams of normal things — a ringing telephone, a crying child, that weird falling sensation that makes your whole body jump — I could deal with that. Afterward, I could breathe a little and slowly fall back into a peaceful slumber. But, that’s not what you do, is it? You cold, heartless bastard. You keep telling me you’re going to change, but I just don’t believe you anymore. Sure, we have this discussion, and for a couple of weeks – maybe a month – your behavior improves. But, then it’s right back to you waking me with dreams of ridiculously disastrous proportions.
Massive earthquakes that make my house fall down:
(I do not like this. Not one bit.)
Airplanes that fall out of the sky (and fall, and fall and fall) when I’m foolish enough to be on board:
Fires and explosions that would make the director of the most frantic of 3-D action flicks jealous:
(And don’t think I missed the angry little eye glaring at me, you sick metaphor-terrorizer.)
Random, shadowy and creepy looking strangers breaking into my house and doing horrible, awful, unspeakable things once inside.
Of course, that’s not enough for you, is it? You freakish over-achiever. You add the extra-special effect of making all this stuff happen in real time but you make me move in SLOW MOTION. I am moving through taffy and melted marshmallow sauce and nasty cobwebs. I am running, but I’m not going ANYWHERE. Then you wake me with pain in my chest that feels like a fully-loaded freight train rumbling through my heart, that makes me sweat like I’ve just run four miles in 90 degree weather, that makes my head pound like someone’s been playing a drum solo on it for the last hour. So, there’s no breathing myself back to sleep, because – you know – I CAN’T BREATHE. Instead, I have to get up and check the house for fires, cracked walls and boogeymen while you and your 59 friends mock me in full L.E.D. glow.
What did I do to deserve this? Haven’t I been good to you? I used to work graveyard shifts for Pete’s sake! I mean, sure, I tried drinking a
little lot before bed sometimes, but I was thinking about you the whole time. The alcohol meant nothing to me. And I said I was sorry, dammit. The next-day hangover was a dick move, Spite-y McSpiterson.
So, you’re gonna need to pack your shit and go. It is you, it’s not me, and if I don’t get a decent night’s sleep up in here, you and your little mob of minutes are going to find out the true meaning of the crazy that is hormones and sleep deprivation:
But we can still be friends, right? Sleep well.