Insomnia
"See, I'm all about them words/Over numbers, unencumbered numbered words...."
Troy,
Gosh, I can't write this without a drink. Give me a second.
Ok, much better. Thank Heaven for Diet Snapple. Is it sad that I turned over the cap, learned that a person breathes in around 13 pints of air every minute, wanted to go jogging and count the number of breaths I did after strenuous exercise and contrast it with the number I did when 'at rest', calculate the approximate volume of air my lungs could hold, and then try to determine if the somewhat arbitrary 13 pints stated was based on the average adult human's lung capacity or the average amount of air consumed by an individual over a clearly defined length of time?
It's a good thing that I suck at math and don't know where the hell my calculator is, or else I probably would be doing that instead of writing this not!letter.
Let me explain, then, why I'm writing this letter, and why it's a not!letter, and why I'm intentionally publicizing this generally private endeavour, even though I could very easily eliminate the 'Troy' header and the yet-to-be-determined footer and just paste the body (with slight modifications) and call it a genuine entry and none would be the wiser.
Um, right then. Shall we?
You've been telling me for months now that I should write; in the last few weeks, you've been noticeably more insistent. I always argue that I can't write because I'm dead inside b/c Tucson is sucking the life out of me, and you call my bluff and tell me that it's because I'm talking to you instead, saying everything instead of writing it. You're right, of course; I hate it when you're right, but I'm too indignant/prideful to let you know that in RealTime, so I make up some ridiculously untenable and complicated excuse that involves me not being able to communicate emotion (really, it's a LIVEJOURNAL, not the definitive romance novel of our generation) which renders any and all writing I would do empty and rote, and you reluctantly humor me, and the conversation moves forward.
I just got a new Snapple. "To remove crayon marks from walls, use a hairdryer to heat the wax." Huh.
So I thought, and I pondered, and I mused, and I reasoned, and I consumed an inappropriate amount of Frosted Mini-Wheats, and I finally came to the conclusion that I COULD write, but only if I wrote to YOU. After all, it's like having a one-sided conversation that's written rather than spoken, and since I only seem to be able to express myself vocally (and generally, that is with you), if I pretend like I'm writing to you I should be able to trick myself into coherently articulating my thoughts, correct? I mean the logic is sound, right? Right? Hello?
Just kidding. Lame, I know.
Actually, the purpose of this letter is to cure my lameness. Any way you slice it it's all your fault, and I'm really not kidding. I'm writing this b/c 1) you want me to write, and 2) I'm writing it to you because I can't write normally because 3) I've gotten in the habit of talking to you instead; 4) because you've got food poisoning (also your fault -- why in the WORLD would you eat green cookies? Vegetables are really the only green foods you should eat, unless it's St. Patrick's Day, and even then I'd be cautious about what I ingested. Seriously, Troy.) and 5) are currently passed out or fending off nausea, both of which are not conducive to conversation; and because....
Well, #6 is because I'm lame, and you are the cause and the cure (and oh, gosh, doesn't that little gem of a phrase read like a perfectly awful fanfic cliche?) and IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT, DAMMIT, AND I CAN'T SLEEP.
This is embarrassing to admit, but I have trouble falling asleep if I'm not talking with you. Bear in mind that this is not because you're boring to talk to or have a monotone voice; it's because I find your voice soothing: it makes me feel safe enough to let my guard down and drift off. Also, as long as you're speaking, it means that you haven't lapsed into a diabetic coma or been disemboweled by the wild animals that lurk in the forest outside your window. That's reassuring, you know?
I've fallen asleep with you on the phone for the last 6 months, give or take the few times when either one or both of us are traveling, on vacation, writing a paper/cramming for exams, partying till 7 AM (me), suffering with bronchitis (you), or unable to find and secure a phone (just about never). Additionally, we've spent this summer geographically isolated from the places we're familiar with and the people we care for, and consequently, have had no reason to miss our nightly conversations, fueling the latent expectation of their occurence. (It also means that I've used more than my 1,000 allotted minutes, which might cost me, but really, nothing can be as bad as the $900 cellphone bill we racked up last time. I still blame Canada for that one.)
But I digress.
The point is that I can't fall asleep (well, not easily) unless I'm talking with you. Or listening to you talk. And this? Makes me LAME.
I really am not sure how this happened. For a good 20.5 years I was perfectly capable of falling asleep all by myself, of shutting off the lights and crawling into bed and pulling up the covers and closing my eyes and achieving an REM cycle. Sometimes music was present, sometimes extra blankets, sometimes even my glasses and clothes-that-weren't-my-pajamas. But now you've come along and completely ruined what remains of my seriously unstable Circadian rhythms, and even if I'm exhausted and have approximately 2 hours to sleep before I have to get up and get going and go to work and try not to fall asleep standing up (it happens, and it's scary, and I had a strange out-of-body moment where I had NO CONTROL WHATSOEVER and was sure I was going to fall over before everything snapped back and my still-present quick-twitch muscles restored my balance), I still can't accomplish this embarrassingly simple task.
Here's the rundown from last night:
12 AM: Everyone has signed off AIM; I shut off my bedroom lights, close the door, wash my face and brush my teeth again and crawl back into bed. I think to myself, "I miss Troy." I then think to myself, "Gosh, you're lame. Why don't you try writing?" I shrug off both thoughts and try to sleep.
12:27 AM: Sleep eludes me. I get up, awaken my computer, open iTunes, and put on my 'In Love' playlist. I roll my eyes at the undeniably and inherently cheesy nature of such a grouping of songs, and think, "At least mine doesn't have 'I Dreamed A Dream' on there. Or Moulin Rouge. I don't know why he thinks that's romantic. They die of tuberculosis." Immediately the reprise of 'I'll Cover You' begins playing, and I scowl at the irony. And then a belated realization: "We have matching playlists. Oh, gosh." Chagrined, I shut off the playlist and get back into bed, indignant.
1:03 AM: Still awake and distinctly annoyed, I sigh and roll back out of bed and resignedly reactivate my computer. "If Troy weren't sick, I wouldn't have this problem. In fact, if it weren't for Troy, I wouldn't have this problem, period." The playlist starts up once more, and I again attempt sleep.
1:14 AM: Half of this music is soothing and the other half is...upbeat. "Why'd you put that on there?" Troy had asked upon learning that my playlist contained songs whose tempo exceeded adagio, and I'd explained somewhat petulantly that they were songs that made me happy and that's what being in love is about, right? Plus, it's MY playlist, and I didn't make fun of him for having the love theme from 'Episode II: Attack of the Clones' on his, did I? (sidenote: HA! He has the love theme from 'Episode II: Attack of the Clones' on his playlist! "Hold me like you did by the lake on Naboo, when all we had was our love...." HA!) But now 'Smooth' is playing, and it's driving me crazy, and I actually say aloud, "I hate it when he's right," and get up to change the song.
1:51 AM: Still awake. I'm preoccupied with paying attention to the lyrics, being irate about being awake and feeling bitter because I'm not talking w/Troy, and I can't fall asleep. I turn up the volume, roll over, clutch pillows, and begin humming along with John Legend in the vain and remote hope that the vocal stimulation will dupe my mind into thinking that I'm talking and that the artist's voices I'm listening to will be enough to lead me to Dreamland.
2:38 AM: "It's not supposed to feel this way/I need you, I need you...." I then realize what I'm doing, stop abruptly, and say more loudly than expressly necessary: "I'm singing Avril fucking Lavigne. HE'S sick and HE'S unconscious because apparently, HE CAN FALL ASLEEP WITHOUT ME, so what is your PROBLEM, Mackenzie Karen? You have to be awake in 3 -- no, shit, two-and-a-half hours -- and, GOSH. Avril Lavigne." There follows a brief period of silence during which time I punch my pillow and stare at the ceiling, defeated, as my playlist continues to cycle through songs. Then: "I can feel, I can feel you near me, even when you're far away/I can feel, I can feel you baby, why....FUCK." I attempt to smother myself with my poor, abused pillow.
2:40 AM: "I need you, I need you, I need you/Tell me...." I've completely given up; Avril triumphs. In the background, 'Smooth' plays in perfectly discordant harmony.
3:30 - 3:39 AM: I finally succumb to slumber.
5:45 AM: An alarm, followed shortly by a knock on my door. "You up, 'Kenzie?" Dad calls. I groan an affirmative, fumble for the snooze button, and think, "Today is definitely a Starbucks day."
SO. LAME.
But hey, at least I've written. You're still sick, I'm still awake, but tonight I managed to be semi-productive. Maybe now I can sleep.
And wow, it feels good to write again, though I am only admitting that because you're not here to tell me "I told you so" in that kind-and-amused-and-teasing-and-pleased tone that I love so much. So for that, thanks.
Still.
I hate it when you're right.
Always,
Mackenzie
PS: "You and I both loved/what you and I spoke of/and others only read of...." Unduly appropriate, all things considered. Sleep well, and I hope you feel better.
Troy,
Gosh, I can't write this without a drink. Give me a second.
Ok, much better. Thank Heaven for Diet Snapple. Is it sad that I turned over the cap, learned that a person breathes in around 13 pints of air every minute, wanted to go jogging and count the number of breaths I did after strenuous exercise and contrast it with the number I did when 'at rest', calculate the approximate volume of air my lungs could hold, and then try to determine if the somewhat arbitrary 13 pints stated was based on the average adult human's lung capacity or the average amount of air consumed by an individual over a clearly defined length of time?
It's a good thing that I suck at math and don't know where the hell my calculator is, or else I probably would be doing that instead of writing this not!letter.
Let me explain, then, why I'm writing this letter, and why it's a not!letter, and why I'm intentionally publicizing this generally private endeavour, even though I could very easily eliminate the 'Troy' header and the yet-to-be-determined footer and just paste the body (with slight modifications) and call it a genuine entry and none would be the wiser.
Um, right then. Shall we?
You've been telling me for months now that I should write; in the last few weeks, you've been noticeably more insistent. I always argue that I can't write because I'm dead inside b/c Tucson is sucking the life out of me, and you call my bluff and tell me that it's because I'm talking to you instead, saying everything instead of writing it. You're right, of course; I hate it when you're right, but I'm too indignant/prideful to let you know that in RealTime, so I make up some ridiculously untenable and complicated excuse that involves me not being able to communicate emotion (really, it's a LIVEJOURNAL, not the definitive romance novel of our generation) which renders any and all writing I would do empty and rote, and you reluctantly humor me, and the conversation moves forward.
I just got a new Snapple. "To remove crayon marks from walls, use a hairdryer to heat the wax." Huh.
So I thought, and I pondered, and I mused, and I reasoned, and I consumed an inappropriate amount of Frosted Mini-Wheats, and I finally came to the conclusion that I COULD write, but only if I wrote to YOU. After all, it's like having a one-sided conversation that's written rather than spoken, and since I only seem to be able to express myself vocally (and generally, that is with you), if I pretend like I'm writing to you I should be able to trick myself into coherently articulating my thoughts, correct? I mean the logic is sound, right? Right? Hello?
Just kidding. Lame, I know.
Actually, the purpose of this letter is to cure my lameness. Any way you slice it it's all your fault, and I'm really not kidding. I'm writing this b/c 1) you want me to write, and 2) I'm writing it to you because I can't write normally because 3) I've gotten in the habit of talking to you instead; 4) because you've got food poisoning (also your fault -- why in the WORLD would you eat green cookies? Vegetables are really the only green foods you should eat, unless it's St. Patrick's Day, and even then I'd be cautious about what I ingested. Seriously, Troy.) and 5) are currently passed out or fending off nausea, both of which are not conducive to conversation; and because....
Well, #6 is because I'm lame, and you are the cause and the cure (and oh, gosh, doesn't that little gem of a phrase read like a perfectly awful fanfic cliche?) and IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT, DAMMIT, AND I CAN'T SLEEP.
This is embarrassing to admit, but I have trouble falling asleep if I'm not talking with you. Bear in mind that this is not because you're boring to talk to or have a monotone voice; it's because I find your voice soothing: it makes me feel safe enough to let my guard down and drift off. Also, as long as you're speaking, it means that you haven't lapsed into a diabetic coma or been disemboweled by the wild animals that lurk in the forest outside your window. That's reassuring, you know?
I've fallen asleep with you on the phone for the last 6 months, give or take the few times when either one or both of us are traveling, on vacation, writing a paper/cramming for exams, partying till 7 AM (me), suffering with bronchitis (you), or unable to find and secure a phone (just about never). Additionally, we've spent this summer geographically isolated from the places we're familiar with and the people we care for, and consequently, have had no reason to miss our nightly conversations, fueling the latent expectation of their occurence. (It also means that I've used more than my 1,000 allotted minutes, which might cost me, but really, nothing can be as bad as the $900 cellphone bill we racked up last time. I still blame Canada for that one.)
But I digress.
The point is that I can't fall asleep (well, not easily) unless I'm talking with you. Or listening to you talk. And this? Makes me LAME.
I really am not sure how this happened. For a good 20.5 years I was perfectly capable of falling asleep all by myself, of shutting off the lights and crawling into bed and pulling up the covers and closing my eyes and achieving an REM cycle. Sometimes music was present, sometimes extra blankets, sometimes even my glasses and clothes-that-weren't-my-pajamas. But now you've come along and completely ruined what remains of my seriously unstable Circadian rhythms, and even if I'm exhausted and have approximately 2 hours to sleep before I have to get up and get going and go to work and try not to fall asleep standing up (it happens, and it's scary, and I had a strange out-of-body moment where I had NO CONTROL WHATSOEVER and was sure I was going to fall over before everything snapped back and my still-present quick-twitch muscles restored my balance), I still can't accomplish this embarrassingly simple task.
Here's the rundown from last night:
12 AM: Everyone has signed off AIM; I shut off my bedroom lights, close the door, wash my face and brush my teeth again and crawl back into bed. I think to myself, "I miss Troy." I then think to myself, "Gosh, you're lame. Why don't you try writing?" I shrug off both thoughts and try to sleep.
12:27 AM: Sleep eludes me. I get up, awaken my computer, open iTunes, and put on my 'In Love' playlist. I roll my eyes at the undeniably and inherently cheesy nature of such a grouping of songs, and think, "At least mine doesn't have 'I Dreamed A Dream' on there. Or Moulin Rouge. I don't know why he thinks that's romantic. They die of tuberculosis." Immediately the reprise of 'I'll Cover You' begins playing, and I scowl at the irony. And then a belated realization: "We have matching playlists. Oh, gosh." Chagrined, I shut off the playlist and get back into bed, indignant.
1:03 AM: Still awake and distinctly annoyed, I sigh and roll back out of bed and resignedly reactivate my computer. "If Troy weren't sick, I wouldn't have this problem. In fact, if it weren't for Troy, I wouldn't have this problem, period." The playlist starts up once more, and I again attempt sleep.
1:14 AM: Half of this music is soothing and the other half is...upbeat. "Why'd you put that on there?" Troy had asked upon learning that my playlist contained songs whose tempo exceeded adagio, and I'd explained somewhat petulantly that they were songs that made me happy and that's what being in love is about, right? Plus, it's MY playlist, and I didn't make fun of him for having the love theme from 'Episode II: Attack of the Clones' on his, did I? (sidenote: HA! He has the love theme from 'Episode II: Attack of the Clones' on his playlist! "Hold me like you did by the lake on Naboo, when all we had was our love...." HA!) But now 'Smooth' is playing, and it's driving me crazy, and I actually say aloud, "I hate it when he's right," and get up to change the song.
1:51 AM: Still awake. I'm preoccupied with paying attention to the lyrics, being irate about being awake and feeling bitter because I'm not talking w/Troy, and I can't fall asleep. I turn up the volume, roll over, clutch pillows, and begin humming along with John Legend in the vain and remote hope that the vocal stimulation will dupe my mind into thinking that I'm talking and that the artist's voices I'm listening to will be enough to lead me to Dreamland.
2:38 AM: "It's not supposed to feel this way/I need you, I need you...." I then realize what I'm doing, stop abruptly, and say more loudly than expressly necessary: "I'm singing Avril fucking Lavigne. HE'S sick and HE'S unconscious because apparently, HE CAN FALL ASLEEP WITHOUT ME, so what is your PROBLEM, Mackenzie Karen? You have to be awake in 3 -- no, shit, two-and-a-half hours -- and, GOSH. Avril Lavigne." There follows a brief period of silence during which time I punch my pillow and stare at the ceiling, defeated, as my playlist continues to cycle through songs. Then: "I can feel, I can feel you near me, even when you're far away/I can feel, I can feel you baby, why....FUCK." I attempt to smother myself with my poor, abused pillow.
2:40 AM: "I need you, I need you, I need you/Tell me...." I've completely given up; Avril triumphs. In the background, 'Smooth' plays in perfectly discordant harmony.
3:30 - 3:39 AM: I finally succumb to slumber.
5:45 AM: An alarm, followed shortly by a knock on my door. "You up, 'Kenzie?" Dad calls. I groan an affirmative, fumble for the snooze button, and think, "Today is definitely a Starbucks day."
SO. LAME.
But hey, at least I've written. You're still sick, I'm still awake, but tonight I managed to be semi-productive. Maybe now I can sleep.
And wow, it feels good to write again, though I am only admitting that because you're not here to tell me "I told you so" in that kind-and-amused-and-teasing-and-pleased tone that I love so much. So for that, thanks.
Still.
I hate it when you're right.
Always,
Mackenzie
PS: "You and I both loved/what you and I spoke of/and others only read of...." Unduly appropriate, all things considered. Sleep well, and I hope you feel better.