Hoot of the night owl.

Just because I've always been fascinated by vampires doesn't mean I should be an insomniac, does it?

Well, it certainly seems that way.

I've been going through one of my Bouts of Sleeplessness again, but this time it's because I'm feeling inspired.

I can't get my brain - or my body - to slow down.

I want to read.
I want to write.
I want to clean.
I want to exercise.
I want to take up cooking.
I want to dance around the house.

I'm like a kid with ADD for Pete's sake!

Take these past few days for example.
I already have 20.5 hours in at work and right now, instead of being dog-tired as I know I should be, I am feeling hyper. I almost wish I could hop on the Air Climber and bang out half an hour - and kick the ass of this morning's measly 15 minutes I did half asleep, but I'm afraid that when I do actually crash, it'll end up keeping up.

It's a vicious, vicious thing methinks.

I've always been a night owl, even when I was a little girl. Yet another trait inherited from Mommalah - it joins gnarly feet, searing wit and all-around fabulousness ... naturally.

Finally sleep, or I was so out I had a terrible dream about my hair. Or lack thereof.

Last night, it was lights out promptly at 10 p.m.
Actually got under the covers at 9:30 to curl up with "On the Road with Bob Dylan" by Larry "Ratso" Sloman.
Took a sleep aid at quarter to 10, and that was it.

Nine hours later, I was jostled awake by my alarm, which very rarely happens.
It was glorious.
Sometimes my body just needs to shut itself down during one of these insomniac cycles, and I totally live for those nights.
Especially considering that, if I can remember them, I have some pretty far-out dreams.

I fully know that one of the worst stories someone could tell another person (aside from a detailed birth or something) is a dream. Unless it directly involves someone, who the F cares, right?

Having said that, it isn't stopping me from sharing my dream:

I was standing on the sidelines of a football game in Alabama, I think, with a friend. It was so bloody hot. I had my hair up in a ponytail and decided to give myself a trim during a break in play. Took the scissors and SNIP!

I tried to clip my hair back on to be "fashionable," but it wouldn't work so I asked my friend to help and he was staring at me, aghast.

"I think you need to look in the mirror," he said and pointed to this huge gold-gilded mirror that just happened to be hanging from the punter's practice net.

I kept running my fingers through my hair, which suddenly felt like a buzz cut hairdo - which is exactly what I somehow had done to myself.

I was horrified and began running around frantic, because seriously, we all know damn well that a women's hair is her crowning glory, or whatever way the saying goes.

So I run across the field in search of my mother, who is the only person who can make it right, but I have no idea where she is in this Alabama town, I just have to follow instinct.

BEEEEP - just a I was about to have a heart attack in the middle of a brick-housed neighborhood, my alarm goes off and damned if I don't run straight to the bathroom to check my hair.

It was all accounted for, thank God.
But I sure as hell kept checking on it all day today.
And was very wary of anyone using scissors in my vicinity.

Creature of the night.

I am about six days into a horrid bout of insomnia.
This is the worst I think I've ever been.

Last night, like most nights, those red digits were my worst enemy.
I slept for maybe half an hour.

Never mind that that half hour included a dream that was sexual in nature with - and I feel ashamed to even relay this - the Dalai Lama, who for some reason was in a glass case.
It also involved one Katie Holmes.
(The insomnia must be eating my brain one cell at a time.)

I am sitting here without a thought in my head - like I've got nothing left, especially after the crazy high-pressure day at work today. Probably because I don't.

And to top it off, I am mad craving coffee ice cream for the second day in a row, a flavor I'm not particularly fond of.


What - and who - the hell am I turning into?

Ode to the wind ...

... that kept waking me up last night:

Ferocious, the wind
howls - nothing like Ginsberg -
awakening me
from my insomniac rest
and batters against the hatch.