When Can I Go To Sleep?
* Per hokey poet’s exhortations, not for another few miles or so.1
* In five second snatches throughout the day. Cache it up!2
* Can’t: still have ladies to skeeve out by having my half-drawn eyes incidentally fix on them while, on the bus, my body/brain goes limp, tongue juts out.3
* Can’t: there’s an urethral blockage– originating in the seminal vesicles– that needs clearing before I can do so. Vigorous Clearing.4
* Can’t: have yet to give you everything I’ve got for a piece of mind.5
* Not until I clean the bathroom. Ammonia + Bleach FT(F,A)N!6
* Not until I track down my wife’s killer. And get married. And my wife dies. (Of murder).7
* Not until I tell them what they want to hear.8
* Not sure– playing chicken with a fistful of pre-2006 NyQuil to find out.9
* After and only After eating/drinking 1/3 of my paycheck.10
* After the world explodes, crumbles, and I’m lying there in your arms, zygoma-to-ulna.11
* Concussion joke.12
* Not until I throw this spaghetti at a wall that doesn’t exist, has no taste for spaghetti.13
* Only after and not until I’m frozen solid in a stupid hedge maze, the monstrous manifestation of alcoholism slayed, stayed– no risk of hangover, breath.14
1Eight, I think.
2Kirk Cameron + Tennis Shoes style.
3Like a kitten cat (that got misinterpreted as a pervert).
5A little smidgen, even. Ripping off Top Cat, you see.
6For The (Forced, Accidental) Nap!
7Not necessarily in that order.
8Couldn’t they just not torture and (just) dash off some forged warrants?
9Face down in the couch listening to And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out, waiting to see if I’ll wake up.
10That is eating 100% and drinking 300%.
11Unfortunately, it seems my ability to sleep is mostly dependent on recreating fictional scenes, dying.
12Not until I’ve got 500 words, sequitur or otherwise.
13And the spaghetti is undercooked, anyways.
14In the book they were topiary, and the house blew up, and the dad looked more like Steven Weber than Jack Nicholson. Meh.