I slept 9 hours last night and I feel unbelievable. My skin tingled as I awoke and my throat, which had been scratchy and warm for the last few days, cleared itself miraculously after dislodging a lumpy loogie. Lovely. It’s been dawning on me lately that I might be significantly sleep deprived. I mean, I always knew I was somewhat lacking, but it’s taken a couple of things coming into view to really notch that focus up. Firstly the counsellor saying I needed more. I know 5.5-6.5 hours a night isn’t a ton, but it’s been manageable for the last few years. Coffee has helped. With so many people regularly saying they can’t function without their 8 hours it’s been making me reconsider. I mean, I’ve been functioning, but at what level?
This isn’t the first time I’ve brought up my sleep patterns on this page. They’re a point of contention even in my own inner dialogue. I know it’s better for my physical and mental health to sleep more, but I think of all the things I can’t be doing while I’m resting and trepidation grows. I never have enough time to do all the things I want while I wake, taking another 2-3 hours out of my day isn’t gonna mitigate that. It seems like every night I find myself sitting in front of a blank page at 11pm, procrastinating over starting this writing process. 30 minutes writing inevitably takes an hour, because I continually pivot on what I’m gonna commit to paper. I hope that doesn’t sound like there’s a ton of planning going into these entries, because given the content that’d just be sad. By the time I’ve got some idea over what I’m gonna write it’s usually about 12.30am. If I don’t have any idea, it’s past 1am and I force creativity. By the time that’s finished there are only so many hours left for slumber. Maybe 6.
I could always do another month off coffee and force myself to keep regular sleeping patterns. Last time I made sure I got 8 hours so as to stave off encroaching insanity. Cutting coffee also meant I entered back into the realm of dreams. I’ve been trying to cut back to 1 cup a day and drink a cup of camomile tea before bed. If this sounds like the most tedious domestic shit you’ve ever read, just hold on. Because my dreams have been getting ludicrous again.
Last week I dreamed that I was smack bang in the middle of a Hardy Boys style investigation back home. Paul Scheer and the rest of the How Did This Get Made podcast had been involved in a sinister multiple homicide cover up involving crashed planes, extortion and worse. My friends and I rode around the neighbourhood on our bikes looking for clues, canvassing locals for any info we could get. We lockpicked our way into Scheer’s house only to find ourselves in an industrial meat storage room dripping with frozen blood and questionable entrails. With the sound of heavy footfalls behind us, I awoke.
Or last night, when I dreamt I woke up to find my genitals replaced with female bits. Nothing else had changed around my body, just the genitals. I went around the house finding things of increasing size to put in there, which played out more like a wacky montage than anything sexual. I met up with a mostly lesbian friend who I’d always thought would be fun to play with if she was attracted to me. I told her about my predicament, which intrigued her enough to give it a go. Great fun sexy times ensued. Waking up I was filled with this disappointment that I couldn’t just swap one type of genital out for the other. Dear Science, could you kindly sort this out for me? I want to have my cake and have someone eat me out too.
Because that’s one hell of a dream.