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Description

There are 4,127 white dots on my ceiling.

Don’t look at me like that. Maybe someday when you realize that you’re laying naked on your bed at half past two in the morning counting the dots on your ceiling, you can give me that look.

Of course by then, I doubt you’ll want to.

I don’t. In fact, I don’t want much of anything anymore, except to close my eyes and have them stay closed, even if it’s only for a while.

30 years. 262,800 hours, 15,768,000 minutes, and never in all of it can I remember being so tired. But there’s a world of difference between tired and sleepy. I didn’t used to think so, but I’ve learned that lesson good and well.

I read somewhere that people who stay awake for long periods of time start to hallucinate after a while. They just kinda go buggo. I have yet to see any pink elephants doing ballet on the floor, or hear little malicious voices telling me to save the manatees, but it doesn’t mean I won’t. Cheery thought. How does someone deal with the knowledge that they could lose their mind, might in fact be already losing it and not even know it?

You’re probably wondering why I haven’t gone to see a doctor yet.

Well, doctors treat diseases and I don’t have one. I suppose some people might beg to differ by calling it insomnia or some such thing, but I know what insomnia is, and I’m pretty sure this goes far beyond it. Hence, there's not much a doctor can do, no matter what they claim. And after all, who would know my own body better than myself?

For a while, my stash of weed gave me catnaps. Blissful catnaps of ten or fifteen minutes, even a whole hour once. I even have the burn hole in my sheets to prove it. After a few days though, even that stopped helping. Near the time I ran out, chain smoking didn‘t even get me drowsy. Hah. Big loss there. The medication that litters the bathrooms of this house didn’t help dick either. It says on the labels you have to be “willing” to sleep for any of it to work. American placebos. I wonder if whoever made those pills ever suffered a single sleepless night in their lives. They say it like it's that easy, just tell yourself you wanna get some sleep, and by the power of suggestions and good marketing, it shall be so.

Give me a break.

At first, I thought maybe it was my dog keeping me awake at night. Faro is the most loyal golden retriever you could ask for. I know all dog owners say that about their dogs, just like all mothers believe their babies are the most beautiful in the world. It’s true though, Faro actually went out and grabbed the paper for me in the morning and brought it back to my doorstep. Didn’t mind curling up at my feet and keeping me warm on cold days either. I liked Faro. Her only fault, if she could be said to have any, is that she was a dog who never quit barking at a reasonable hour, when reasonable people are trying to get some shut eye. At first I didn’t mind, I figured since I’m gonna be wide awake anyway, she can at least give me something to listen to when it’s dark and lonely. Then two nights ago I thought to myself “What if it‘s her? Could it be? Is she keeping me awake all night with her barking, and stupid me not even realizing it? Could she be the reason?”

How dare that mangy mutt. I gave her a home, gave her food and exercise, raised her from a blind, whimpering puppy, and this is how she thanks me? By robbing me of my sleep with her incessant barking aimed directly at my window? Well that was okay. She made the worst mistake of her life by thinking she could drive me out by depriving me of rest long enough. I’ve stood fast in the path of lawyers and board execs worlds tougher than that bitch, and I wasn’t about to give in now. Or at least that’s what I thought.

Lord, I thought her barks outside were loud enough. When I started on her she would’ve woke the whole neighborhood if I hadn’t clamped her muzzle with my hand. Fortunately it didn’t take long. Forty-five seconds at the outside, and it was over. I put the hacksaw down and picked up the pool cue, and that was that. In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t the best idea, but like an old chemistry teacher of mine once said, “Even eliminating possibilities helps.” So now I know for certain she wasn’t the cause of my sleeplessness. I’m glad too. I want my Faro to have a good place in my heart. I don’t want to hate my dog.

You keep looking at me like that. I’m only trying to find out what my problem is so I can cure it. And there is no more surefire way than methodically removing possibilities until only one is left. I think Einstein said that. It may take a while, sure, but it leaves nothing to chance. Now that I think about it, another possibility just popped into my mind.

There will be food in this fridge. Just got to count to three. One, two, three. Nothing. Just a lonely potato and a jar of jelly. I wouldn’t touch that potato with a ten foot pole. They say there are actually millions of microscopic disease ridden germs that swarm over it’s innocent looking skin like locusts, and they‘re so small you can‘t see them. Not so very innocent now are you, my spudly friend? Well this is one person you won’t be fooling with your outwardly healthy appearance. I know your game, you’re just waiting for me to reach out and grab you, cut you to pieces and shove you in my mouth, chew you into mush and digest you in my stomach. Because then, then it’ll be like the landing at Normandy for your crawling friends won’t it? It won’t take you long, so don’t sit there and tell me it it’ll be days before you get started. I watch Discovery, I read Medical journals, I know all about you. All you need me to do is reach out and touch you, just one little touch, and you’ll have me squirming on the floor for my foolishly misplaced trust, wallowing in my own shit like a pig as I hug my stomach for dear life. Well, I’m no pig, and I’m no fool. You can sit there and rot on that middle shelf ‘till hell’s a skating rink for all I care.

Bam! There goes the light, and quite unexpectedly too. Pretty sad that’s the most exciting thing that happened here lately. The only thing shining in my kitchen now is the glow of the open fridge. Have you ever noticed how the light of the icebox in the middle of the night looks so alien? When all the other lights are off, and it’s just beaming light like a door to someone’s room, it seems so out of place in all that darkness. And it always suggests sleeplessness, no matter where you’re at, or what you‘re doing, standing naked in front of your fridge in the middle of the night, staring at it’s contents says you‘re awake when you shouldn‘t be. The fridge is always so welcoming too. Doesn't matter what time of night, you always know you can open the fridge in the pitch blackness of your house and it will immediately pour light into the darkness, as if it’s saying to you, “Hello again old friend, can’t sleep either?”

Then there’s the jar of jelly. I think I have some bread here somewhere, maybe upstairs in my bedside fridge. Those things are so neat, little mini fridges that plug in the wall and sit right next to your bed. God bless the Taiwanese, or whoever invented them. So lemme get this straight: I’ve gotta go back up the stairs, past the pool cue with Faro’s head on it, down the hallway, back in my room, just on the off chance there might be some bread up there?

Forget it, I’ll go hungry tonight. Since I’m already down here, though, I guess I can find something to do. Which reminds me, my goldfish need food. Fragile little buggers, those fish. Get their tank too warm or too cold, even by just a few degrees, and they bob on the surface like buoyant turds. Give ‘em too much food, or maybe not enough, and once again they keel over. I have to wonder, if there is a God, why would He make such a pitiful life form? Personal amusement?

In fact, now that I think about it, goldfish really don’t do much for us, do they? They’re never gonna bring me my paper in the morning, or nuzzle up on my feet and keep them warm. Of course neither will Faro anymore, but that’s beside the point. All they do, day in and day out is swim obliviously in their tank, waiting for their next meal and for the next person to tap the glass so they can swim into it like idiots because for some reason that’s cute. What a life.

Don’t I feed them? Don’t I keep their tank nice and comfy so it’s like living at the Four Seasons for them 24/7? Don’t I even do that disgustingly cute tap bit so they can injure themselves when they‘re bored? I think I deserve a little something for my tireless efforts. It’s not too much to ask of them to actually be a pet to me for once, since they’ve taken advantage of my goodwill for so long.

These guys are hard to hold on to. Got him again. Now which one is this, Barry? Bert? Mathilda? Who cares, they all look alike anyways. Yes, you twist and turn all you want, you know what’s coming, I can see it in your beady, black little eyes, and I wonder, are you gasping for air, or is it fear? Well my friend, you have every reason to be afraid. Everyone’s bill comes due, yours just happened to come a little sooner. Down the hatch.

I can feel it flopping around on my tongue, and it tickles. It really tickles in fact. Mmm... that takes care of that. I honestly didn’t expect a goldfish to be this juicy, or crunchy. It tastes kinda… I don’t even know what to compare it to, it’s just a strange taste. I don’t think it’s blood, fish don’t have blood, at least not goldfish. Wait a second… yeah, that was a distinctive squelch I felt. I think it might’ve been an eyeball, not that there’s really a way to tell now, is there?

Well, that was filling, more so than that jar of jelly, or that potato. Except now I gotta go brush these scales off my teeth. I’ll do it in a little while. So far, I’ve managed to kill two hours, as it’s now 4:30, and as usual, I don’t even feel the least bit goddamn sleepy.

I look terrible. Eyes are all bloodshot, hair’s a mess, and I have bags and crow tracks on my face now. I look like Nick Nolte probably did when he was still stumbling out of bars. Ugh. According to my clock, as it now reads 4:36, I have been awake for 338 hours and 36 minutes straight. I could probably claim that as some kind of record, if I felt like booting up my computer and checking. Which I don’t.

Music doesn't help any. I’ve listened to every CD and record in my possession, at least five times each, and none of it has helped yet. Maybe I’ll just be awake until I die. I’ll be walking to the fridge one night, muttering to myself, since by then I’m fairly sure I’ll be off my rocker, and I’ll just kick off right there in the middle of my living room. No famous last words. At least Pancho Villa said, “Don’t let it end like this. Tell them I said something.” No dramatic gesture of defiance to the last, I’ll just be shuffling, and then be taking a quick trip to the floor. I want sleep.

5:01. I am the only person in the world standing naked on my second floor balcony at 5:01 a.m. with a pool cue that has my dog’s head on it and my goldfish digesting in my stomach. If I look closely, I can actually see the world turning and the horizon moving, ever so slightly. It’s maddening. Seeing all those houses with their lights out and their inhabitants zzzing away the night while I’m forced to exist outside sleep, watching them obliviously taking advantage of it’s sweet embrace. So unfair.

A day before, except for my kitchen and bedroom light, I smashed every bulb in this house to bits with a broom handle. I went from room to room, like a serial stalker going through the house, and shattered every single one of them. Some of them I even unscrewed and broke on the ground so I could hit the pieces a couple more times. It was actually quite refreshing, not to mention stress relieving.

Back to my room then, digging through boxes and boxes of junk, trying to get it all organized and neat. Hello, there’s something I didn’t expect to see. This picture of me and my wife, excuse me, ex-wife, when we visited Niagara Falls, back in the summer of ‘98. I haven’t thought about her for years, ever since we had our little falling out. From what I understand, she and her new husband were quite happy for a while, with three children to their name. Seeing this picture for the first time in almost six years brings back some sad memories. Could I have done something different to make her want to stay with me? Might we have lived happily ever after? Maybe I could've been there for her a little more, and then I'd at least have someone to share this hellfucked situation with.

Oh well. What’s done is done, and cannot be undone. I’m not sure who said that, somebody important, but whoever it was pegged it right. “What’s done is done and cannot be undone.” I love the finality of that statement. The sheer adamant aggressiveness of it that completely denies all argument and negotiation. If only more people could live by that saying, then maybe we’d all sleep better at night.

I’m tired. That goes without saying. Not just physically, I’m tired of seeing things that aren't there. I'm tired of waiting for my mind to crumble away out from under me. Tired of closing my eyes and feeling nothing. Tired of having this house to myself day and night and night and day. Mostly though, I’m tired of sunup and sundown, watching the two of them pass me by relentlessly without a thought. What a predicament. I can’t sleep, therefore I’m always thinking about what could have been, or what might be, and because of that, ignoring what is. On the other hand though, if I could sleep, I think I know what I’ll see, and I don’t like it.

I have a solution. Even as you read this, I’m loading my .38. Not with six bullets mind you, who the hell wants to go out like that? No, I think I’ll play a little Russian Roulette with my last night here. Always wanted to. I was usually just too afraid of dying. Well that's at least one problem that has since been remedied. Death doesn’t scare me so much these days, not nearly as much as having to continue on in this house like this, steadily creeping towards insanity. Six chambers, one bullet, let’s spin the barrel and see if I get lucky. Wham. There’s goes chamber number one, and the dead click that accompanies it. Click. I live to write another day. I wonder what my wife would think if she saw me doing this? If she walked in the door right now, walked in on me with a gun to my head, would I turn to her, shocked and surprised, like a kid who gets caught doing weed by his mom for the first time? Or would I simply keep going, unphased?

Click. Nothing so far. My luck could very well be so bad tonight that I just happened to pull the one dud out of a box of 100. Wouldn’t that be a joke? I make it all the way to that sixth round, close my eyes in eager fright and anticipation, and squeeze the trigger with a shaking hand, only to hear

Description

There are 4,127 white dots on my ceiling.

Don’t look at me like that. Maybe someday when you realize that you’re laying naked on your bed at half past two in the morning counting the dots on your ceiling, you can give me that look.

Of course by then, I doubt you’ll want to.

I don’t. In fact, I don’t want much of anything anymore, except to close my eyes and have them stay closed, even if it’s only for a while.

30 years. 262,800 hours, 15,768,000 minutes, and never in all of it can I remember being so tired. But there’s a world of difference between tired and sleepy. I didn’t used to think so, but I’ve learned that lesson good and well.

I read somewhere that people who stay awake for long periods of time start to hallucinate after a while. They just kinda go buggo. I have yet to see any pink elephants doing ballet on the floor, or hear little malicious voices telling me to save the manatees, but it doesn’t mean I won’t. Cheery thought. How does someone deal with the knowledge that they could lose their mind, might in fact be already losing it and not even know it?

You’re probably wondering why I haven’t gone to see a doctor yet.

Well, doctors treat diseases and I don’t have one. I suppose some people might beg to differ by calling it insomnia or some such thing, but I know what insomnia is, and I’m pretty sure this goes far beyond it. Hence, there's not much a doctor can do, no matter what they claim. And after all, who would know my own body better than myself?

For a while, my stash of weed gave me catnaps. Blissful catnaps of ten or fifteen minutes, even a whole hour once. I even have the burn hole in my sheets to prove it. After a few days though, even that stopped helping. Near the time I ran out, chain smoking didn‘t even get me drowsy. Hah. Big loss there. The medication that litters the bathrooms of this house didn’t help dick either. It says on the labels you have to be “willing” to sleep for any of it to work. American placebos. I wonder if whoever made those pills ever suffered a single sleepless night in their lives. They say it like it's that easy, just tell yourself you wanna get some sleep, and by the power of suggestions and good marketing, it shall be so.

Give me a break.

At first, I thought maybe it was my dog keeping me awake at night. Faro is the most loyal golden retriever you could ask for. I know all dog owners say that about their dogs, just like all mothers believe their babies are the most beautiful in the world. It’s true though, Faro actually went out and grabbed the paper for me in the morning and brought it back to my doorstep. Didn’t mind curling up at my feet and keeping me warm on cold days either. I liked Faro. Her only fault, if she could be said to have any, is that she was a dog who never quit barking at a reasonable hour, when reasonable people are trying to get some shut eye. At first I didn’t mind, I figured since I’m gonna be wide awake anyway, she can at least give me something to listen to when it’s dark and lonely. Then two nights ago I thought to myself “What if it‘s her? Could it be? Is she keeping me awake all night with her barking, and stupid me not even realizing it? Could she be the reason?”

How dare that mangy mutt. I gave her a home, gave her food and exercise, raised her from a blind, whimpering puppy, and this is how she thanks me? By robbing me of my sleep with her incessant barking aimed directly at my window? Well that was okay. She made the worst mistake of her life by thinking she could drive me out by depriving me of rest long enough. I’ve stood fast in the path of lawyers and board execs worlds tougher than that bitch, and I wasn’t about to give in now. Or at least that’s what I thought.

Lord, I thought her barks outside were loud enough. When I started on her she would’ve woke the whole neighborhood if I hadn’t clamped her muzzle with my hand. Fortunately it didn’t take long. Forty-five seconds at the outside, and it was over. I put the hacksaw down and picked up the pool cue, and that was that. In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t the best idea, but like an old chemistry teacher of mine once said, “Even eliminating possibilities helps.” So now I know for certain she wasn’t the cause of my sleeplessness. I’m glad too. I want my Faro to have a good place in my heart. I don’t want to hate my dog.

You keep looking at me like that. I’m only trying to find out what my problem is so I can cure it. And there is no more surefire way than methodically removing possibilities until only one is left. I think Einstein said that. It may take a while, sure, but it leaves nothing to chance. Now that I think about it, another possibility just popped into my mind.

There will be food in this fridge. Just got to count to three. One, two, three. Nothing. Just a lonely potato and a jar of jelly. I wouldn’t touch that potato with a ten foot pole. They say there are actually millions of microscopic disease ridden germs that swarm over it’s innocent looking skin like locusts, and they‘re so small you can‘t see them. Not so very innocent now are you, my spudly friend? Well this is one person you won’t be fooling with your outwardly healthy appearance. I know your game, you’re just waiting for me to reach out and grab you, cut you to pieces and shove you in my mouth, chew you into mush and digest you in my stomach. Because then, then it’ll be like the landing at Normandy for your crawling friends won’t it? It won’t take you long, so don’t sit there and tell me it it’ll be days before you get started. I watch Discovery, I read Medical journals, I know all about you. All you need me to do is reach out and touch you, just one little touch, and you’ll have me squirming on the floor for my foolishly misplaced trust, wallowing in my own shit like a pig as I hug my stomach for dear life. Well, I’m no pig, and I’m no fool. You can sit there and rot on that middle shelf ‘till hell’s a skating rink for all I care.

Bam! There goes the light, and quite unexpectedly too. Pretty sad that’s the most exciting thing that happened here lately. The only thing shining in my kitchen now is the glow of the open fridge. Have you ever noticed how the light of the icebox in the middle of the night looks so alien? When all the other lights are off, and it’s just beaming light like a door to someone’s room, it seems so out of place in all that darkness. And it always suggests sleeplessness, no matter where you’re at, or what you‘re doing, standing naked in front of your fridge in the middle of the night, staring at it’s contents says you‘re awake when you shouldn‘t be. The fridge is always so welcoming too. Doesn't matter what time of night, you always know you can open the fridge in the pitch blackness of your house and it will immediately pour light into the darkness, as if it’s saying to you, “Hello again old friend, can’t sleep either?”

Then there’s the jar of jelly. I think I have some bread here somewhere, maybe upstairs in my bedside fridge. Those things are so neat, little mini fridges that plug in the wall and sit right next to your bed. God bless the Taiwanese, or whoever invented them. So lemme get this straight: I’ve gotta go back up the stairs, past the pool cue with Faro’s head on it, down the hallway, back in my room, just on the off chance there might be some bread up there?

Forget it, I’ll go hungry tonight. Since I’m already down here, though, I guess I can find something to do. Which reminds me, my goldfish need food. Fragile little buggers, those fish. Get their tank too warm or too cold, even by just a few degrees, and they bob on the surface like buoyant turds. Give ‘em too much food, or maybe not enough, and once again they keel over. I have to wonder, if there is a God, why would He make such a pitiful life form? Personal amusement?

In fact, now that I think about it, goldfish really don’t do much for us, do they? They’re never gonna bring me my paper in the morning, or nuzzle up on my feet and keep them warm. Of course neither will Faro anymore, but that’s beside the point. All they do, day in and day out is swim obliviously in their tank, waiting for their next meal and for the next person to tap the glass so they can swim into it like idiots because for some reason that’s cute. What a life.

Don’t I feed them? Don’t I keep their tank nice and comfy so it’s like living at the Four Seasons for them 24/7? Don’t I even do that disgustingly cute tap bit so they can injure themselves when they‘re bored? I think I deserve a little something for my tireless efforts. It’s not too much to ask of them to actually be a pet to me for once, since they’ve taken advantage of my goodwill for so long.

These guys are hard to hold on to. Got him again. Now which one is this, Barry? Bert? Mathilda? Who cares, they all look alike anyways. Yes, you twist and turn all you want, you know what’s coming, I can see it in your beady, black little eyes, and I wonder, are you gasping for air, or is it fear? Well my friend, you have every reason to be afraid. Everyone’s bill comes due, yours just happened to come a little sooner. Down the hatch.

I can feel it flopping around on my tongue, and it tickles. It really tickles in fact. Mmm... that takes care of that. I honestly didn’t expect a goldfish to be this juicy, or crunchy. It tastes kinda… I don’t even know what to compare it to, it’s just a strange taste. I don’t think it’s blood, fish don’t have blood, at least not goldfish. Wait a second… yeah, that was a distinctive squelch I felt. I think it might’ve been an eyeball, not that there’s really a way to tell now, is there?

Well, that was filling, more so than that jar of jelly, or that potato. Except now I gotta go brush these scales off my teeth. I’ll do it in a little while. So far, I’ve managed to kill two hours, as it’s now 4:30, and as usual, I don’t even feel the least bit goddamn sleepy.

I look terrible. Eyes are all bloodshot, hair’s a mess, and I have bags and crow tracks on my face now. I look like Nick Nolte probably did when he was still stumbling out of bars. Ugh. According to my clock, as it now reads 4:36, I have been awake for 338 hours and 36 minutes straight. I could probably claim that as some kind of record, if I felt like booting up my computer and checking. Which I don’t.

Music doesn't help any. I’ve listened to every CD and record in my possession, at least five times each, and none of it has helped yet. Maybe I’ll just be awake until I die. I’ll be walking to the fridge one night, muttering to myself, since by then I’m fairly sure I’ll be off my rocker, and I’ll just kick off right there in the middle of my living room. No famous last words. At least Pancho Villa said, “Don’t let it end like this. Tell them I said something.” No dramatic gesture of defiance to the last, I’ll just be shuffling, and then be taking a quick trip to the floor. I want sleep.

5:01. I am the only person in the world standing naked on my second floor balcony at 5:01 a.m. with a pool cue that has my dog’s head on it and my goldfish digesting in my stomach. If I look closely, I can actually see the world turning and the horizon moving, ever so slightly. It’s maddening. Seeing all those houses with their lights out and their inhabitants zzzing away the night while I’m forced to exist outside sleep, watching them obliviously taking advantage of it’s sweet embrace. So unfair.

A day before, except for my kitchen and bedroom light, I smashed every bulb in this house to bits with a broom handle. I went from room to room, like a serial stalker going through the house, and shattered every single one of them. Some of them I even unscrewed and broke on the ground so I could hit the pieces a couple more times. It was actually quite refreshing, not to mention stress relieving.

Back to my room then, digging through boxes and boxes of junk, trying to get it all organized and neat. Hello, there’s something I didn’t expect to see. This picture of me and my wife, excuse me, ex-wife, when we visited Niagara Falls, back in the summer of ‘98. I haven’t thought about her for years, ever since we had our little falling out. From what I understand, she and her new husband were quite happy for a while, with three children to their name. Seeing this picture for the first time in almost six years brings back some sad memories. Could I have done something different to make her want to stay with me? Might we have lived happily ever after? Maybe I could've been there for her a little more, and then I'd at least have someone to share this hellfucked situation with.

Oh well. What’s done is done, and cannot be undone. I’m not sure who said that, somebody important, but whoever it was pegged it right. “What’s done is done and cannot be undone.” I love the finality of that statement. The sheer adamant aggressiveness of it that completely denies all argument and negotiation. If only more people could live by that saying, then maybe we’d all sleep better at night.

I’m tired. That goes without saying. Not just physically, I’m tired of seeing things that aren't there. I'm tired of waiting for my mind to crumble away out from under me. Tired of closing my eyes and feeling nothing. Tired of having this house to myself day and night and night and day. Mostly though, I’m tired of sunup and sundown, watching the two of them pass me by relentlessly without a thought. What a predicament. I can’t sleep, therefore I’m always thinking about what could have been, or what might be, and because of that, ignoring what is. On the other hand though, if I could sleep, I think I know what I’ll see, and I don’t like it.

I have a solution. Even as you read this, I’m loading my .38. Not with six bullets mind you, who the hell wants to go out like that? No, I think I’ll play a little Russian Roulette with my last night here. Always wanted to. I was usually just too afraid of dying. Well that's at least one problem that has since been remedied. Death doesn’t scare me so much these days, not nearly as much as having to continue on in this house like this, steadily creeping towards insanity. Six chambers, one bullet, let’s spin the barrel and see if I get lucky. Wham. There’s goes chamber number one, and the dead click that accompanies it. Click. I live to write another day. I wonder what my wife would think if she saw me doing this? If she walked in the door right now, walked in on me with a gun to my head, would I turn to her, shocked and surprised, like a kid who gets caught doing weed by his mom for the first time? Or would I simply keep going, unphased?

Click. Nothing so far. My luck could very well be so bad tonight that I just happened to pull the one dud out of a box of 100. Wouldn’t that be a joke? I make it all the way to that sixth round, close my eyes in eager fright and anticipation, and squeeze the trigger with a shaking hand, only to hear