Wednesday, 26 March 2014

I like sleeping. It's like death without the commitment.

I like sleeping.  It's like death without the commitment.
26 March 2014

I saw this quote on Facebook just the other day.  And it rang so true.

Which is kind of ironic.  Especially for me.

Cause I enjoy sleep as much as the average person.  I really do.  I understand the purpose and need for a daily recharge.  The mind numbingly nothingness of sleep.  The brain switch off it enforces.  The opportunity it creates for daily rebirth.

But here’s the thing – man it’s boring.  Such a huge waste of time.  Which is what really bums me out.  The very nothingness it enforces, is the bit that annoys me.

I could be doing so much more - interesting and fun stuff, if I had an extra eight hours per day.  Just think about it. 

Which is why I’ve reached a compromise with sleep.  We’ve got an agreement of sorts.

I’ll give in, and give it 5 – 6 hours per day.  If I can pocket the extra 2 – 3 hours a day that I gain by not sleeping, for myself.  If I can put that stolen time to better use. 

All in all, it seems pretty fair.

And so in my stolen time, thanx to my deal with Wee Willy Winkie, I do fun stuff.  But only if real life doesn’t encroach on that time.  If it really is bonus time.

Therefore I blog.  And I walk.  Indulge a bit in things that feed me.  That nurture my soul.

But every so often, I really wish I hadn’t made this deal.  That I could renege on the agreement.  Take it back if you wish.

Why just the other day, I had the most fabulous dream.  This hunky, gorgeous, Italian looking dude (think Andy Garcia), obviously crazy about me, was chasing me around in the pool.  This ginormous shallow pool.  More like the Trevi fountain really (you know how wacky dreams can be – nothing making sense).  There was this marvellous sense of anticipation, as he was running around after me.  Smiling his gorgeous, dimpled smile.  Telling me how beautiful I am.  How irresistible he finds me. 

And just as I was about to let him catch me, I was woken up.

By a middle aged man, with a middle aged spread.  A bald man, with very clear intentions as to indulging in a bit of couch rugby and tonsil hockey.  No Trevi fountain in sight.

I suppose we can’t have it all.   

The huge irony of course, being the fact that I’m particularly partial to the middle aged man, with the middle aged spread.  Bald head and all.  I was even game for the sports he intended in indulging in.

Actually, truth be told, I prefer him to old Andy.  And I really like Andy.  A lot.

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