Jiminy...
I got my wisdom teeth pulled last Friday...more on that later. But wisdom tooth removal means pain killers, and pain killers mean that for the past couple nights I have slept like a brick, despite the Army of Crickets that are staging a coup outside of my apartment.
[For effect, I would have inserted here a picture of a cricket with a little army hat photoshopped on it, but alas, all I have on hand is microsoft paint, and not enough patience.]
Do you ever get catch yourself lucid dreaming? Last night, I was having this dream that I was Tina Fey (which may or may not have had to do with me and Bess talking about how much we wanted to be Tina Fey yesterday. Good job, subconscious.) In my dream, I had written a sketch that apparently just bombed, and I halfway woke up, completely stressed out. And I kept coaching myself, go back to sleep, you're fine, you're fine, but by then the tylenol had worn off and my teeth started hurting. I faced facts; I was awake. I trudged downstairs at 3:30am, popped some pills and flipped on Flight of the Conchords. 4am came and I decided to make an attempt at sleeping again. Turned off the TV, and -
"CHIIIIRRRRRP. chirp. CHIRP. chirpchirp. Chirp? Chirpachirp. Chirpity chirp."
What. The fuck. I know that crickets are a "sound of summer," whatever. If I was sitting on a porch in a rocker with a glass of sweet tea at sunset, they'd be a great soundtrack to the moment. But not now. Not when I am tired, and cranky, and in pain.
I'm sure they were scattered throughout the apartment grounds, but in my mind, they were all gathered in one place -- on my patio, like a little Cricket United Nations. I can only imagine that they came to avenge the deaths of the two or three crickets that have been murdered in this apartment. One of these was most likely their cricket leader, the Lord of the Crickets, if you will. He would have died in one of two ways. One - mercilessly beaten under the playful paws of Corona, followed up by me, with the vacuum. Two - caught in a cup by Damon, while I shrieked from the couch, "Ew! Git it! Git! It!" (I have a southern accent for this story.) This would also involve Damon pretending to put the cup in my face, thus proving that theory about boys, and snails, and puppy dog's tails.
Shouldn't the incessant chirping simply become background noise, you ask? Well, no. Because once I am up from my sweet, golden slumber, certain conditions must be met to fall back into it. Conditions are are follows:
1) No light. Any speck lighter than pitch dark, and I will see it through my eyelids, and it will scorch into my retinas with the heat of a thousands suns.
2) No sound. I have silently resented Damon in early morning hours for breathing too heavily.
3) Perfect temperature. I need it cool. Even in the dead heat of summer, I want to sleep with my blanket. I don't care what it says about my insecurities.
Also? FACT: Everytime I can't get to sleep I think of this Ren and Stimpy episode.
I roused Damon from his sleep as I crawled back into bed, enough for him to ask, "What the hell is that on your head?" and I thought about how silly I must look with my comforter pulled down around my head, like a nun in a veil stuffed with goose feathers. But it was the only way. It was the only way to block the chirping. I fell back asleep around 5:30am, and dreamt about an Amish apocalypse.
[For effect, I would have inserted here a picture of a cricket with a little army hat photoshopped on it, but alas, all I have on hand is microsoft paint, and not enough patience.]
Do you ever get catch yourself lucid dreaming? Last night, I was having this dream that I was Tina Fey (which may or may not have had to do with me and Bess talking about how much we wanted to be Tina Fey yesterday. Good job, subconscious.) In my dream, I had written a sketch that apparently just bombed, and I halfway woke up, completely stressed out. And I kept coaching myself, go back to sleep, you're fine, you're fine, but by then the tylenol had worn off and my teeth started hurting. I faced facts; I was awake. I trudged downstairs at 3:30am, popped some pills and flipped on Flight of the Conchords. 4am came and I decided to make an attempt at sleeping again. Turned off the TV, and -
"CHIIIIRRRRRP. chirp. CHIRP. chirpchirp. Chirp? Chirpachirp. Chirpity chirp."
What. The fuck. I know that crickets are a "sound of summer," whatever. If I was sitting on a porch in a rocker with a glass of sweet tea at sunset, they'd be a great soundtrack to the moment. But not now. Not when I am tired, and cranky, and in pain.
I'm sure they were scattered throughout the apartment grounds, but in my mind, they were all gathered in one place -- on my patio, like a little Cricket United Nations. I can only imagine that they came to avenge the deaths of the two or three crickets that have been murdered in this apartment. One of these was most likely their cricket leader, the Lord of the Crickets, if you will. He would have died in one of two ways. One - mercilessly beaten under the playful paws of Corona, followed up by me, with the vacuum. Two - caught in a cup by Damon, while I shrieked from the couch, "Ew! Git it! Git! It!" (I have a southern accent for this story.) This would also involve Damon pretending to put the cup in my face, thus proving that theory about boys, and snails, and puppy dog's tails.
Shouldn't the incessant chirping simply become background noise, you ask? Well, no. Because once I am up from my sweet, golden slumber, certain conditions must be met to fall back into it. Conditions are are follows:
1) No light. Any speck lighter than pitch dark, and I will see it through my eyelids, and it will scorch into my retinas with the heat of a thousands suns.
2) No sound. I have silently resented Damon in early morning hours for breathing too heavily.
3) Perfect temperature. I need it cool. Even in the dead heat of summer, I want to sleep with my blanket. I don't care what it says about my insecurities.
Also? FACT: Everytime I can't get to sleep I think of this Ren and Stimpy episode.
I roused Damon from his sleep as I crawled back into bed, enough for him to ask, "What the hell is that on your head?" and I thought about how silly I must look with my comforter pulled down around my head, like a nun in a veil stuffed with goose feathers. But it was the only way. It was the only way to block the chirping. I fell back asleep around 5:30am, and dreamt about an Amish apocalypse.