Go To Sleep

Stream of a lack of consciousness

I’m half asleep and writing this while I’m laying down awkwardly on one side of my body, my neck is resting crooked, it feels crickety. It’s creaking and distracting me.

The only thing keeping my head up far enough to see the screen in front of me is the duvet that I fold in the gap between my shoulder and my ear in the exact same position every night.

What an angle.

12 months, 52.1429 weeks, 365 days, 8760 hours, 525600 minutes, and 31,536,000 seconds of the year, I stay the same.

But not really … or at all, actually.
But still, kind of.

Ouch, my hip.

I’m waiting patiently for the Trazadone to take me out, to kick me to the curb of night, to put me to sleep.

My thoughts are running.

I love downers.

I love uppers.

Maybe not at the same time, though.

Do you remember back in the day, Jagerbombs?

Yeah, you know the ones, that shot with a Red Bull base and a Jagermeister measure in the middle of it, they slotted together like a stacking Russian doll missing most of its layers.

They tasted like cough medicine and came with that little can of caffeine that looked like sparkling piss.

So, so much sugar — like a box of a dozen fruity doughnuts that have been put through a blender for an hour and left to ferment in the summer sun like a dodgy prison cocktail.

Oh, and didn’t everyone used to say it had bulls … stuff … in it too?
Where did that even come from?

2009 was wild.

You had four in the time it took me to order my drink last night.

I’m not surprised you don’t remember it, they were only the tip of the icebergs melting inside the new whisky beverage you’d shown such a liking for out of nowhere. Ten-year-old scotch sold at £9.75 for a single shot, and in double servings; you’ve always been a vodka girl though.

I gave up after you started downing them in a competition against five swollen rugby guys in their mid-twenties just to prove that you’re ‘the man’.

You ended up with about £50 worth of it dried up in your bra.

My girlfriend, the most toxically masculine person I know.
Jager, your Achilles heel.

I’d suggest, out of love (and secondhand embarrassment) that you go easier on the drinking unless you want to experience another one of those home-bound public meltdowns where you end up scaring another poor stranger into calling you an ambulance because you think you’re dying from the palpitations you got from mixing that much caffeine with alcohol.

At least he left us feeling like a hero.
He saved a life that night as far as he knows.

This entire thing reminds me of the time I took my ex to A&E because she thought her appendix was bursting. I was distraught. I harassed doctors and nurses to take her seriously and when they eventually did, and after this long ass wait in utter dread and panic, it turned out that she had a bad case of … trapped wind.

Anyway, I’m tired, this stream of a lack of consciousness is over for a bit.

Go to sleep.