It's My Bed, Now I Have To Sleep In It

Or not.

GOD I am tired. And I have no one to blame for my sleepy state of affairs, but yours truly.

I just got off the phone with my best friend, Pedro, and we decided that he'll stay at my place tonight. That's all fine and dandy, except this time he has every intention of waking me up tomorrow morning at whatever ass-crack o' dawn time he gets up. Last time he was here, I blissfully slept in thinking he would do the same, little did I know he'd been up three hours on the couch, reading.

I don't begrudge Pedro. We've been best friends for over a dozen years. I just wish I foresaw some opportunity in the near future to catch up on my effing sleep! Naps are worthless, they just throw me out of whack later on. Saturday's out, we'll be up (relatively) early to do the whole Christmas thing. Sunday I'm driving to Hagerstown. Between shopping for gifts, finding time to be with Beth, and my own sporadic insomnia, I think I'm pulling down a little less than six hours a night. I really wish that were enough. More than enough. If not for the whole necessary REM thing, I'd be happy to do away with slumber all together, if I could guarantee an alternate energy source. (Outside a constant diet of sweet potatoes. I'll pass.) There are plenty of things I could be doing during the wee hours of the night/morning; chief among them, writing. Instead, I just get progressively crankier. Like right now.

And for all my pissing and moaning, I'm the only one at fault here. It's my effing choice to maintain a 40-hour-a-week day job and still keep the hours of a nightowl. Nobody twisted my arm to audition for the shows I've done. Damn. It's my bed, I'll sleep in it... If I can find the time, that is.