Post by Deleted on Mar 3, 2014 17:53:45 GMT
It’s 3:55 a.m. when I realize the shape of the 5s on my digital alarm clock can fit together, back to back, in an endless stream. If it were 1:58, I would be able to entertain myself with a bit of word play—two to two—but it’s 3:55 and all I’m left with is math. But, then again, if it were 1:58, I’d still have hope of falling asleep tonight.
When I finally tire off connecting my tower of LEGO imaginary digital 5s wrap around my bedroom twice, as if it were police crime scene tape, roping off the area so I can draw a chalk outline around the bodies of the sheep that have died from exhaustion, forced to repeatedly jump over my bed as I count them, I take another look at the clock. It’s 4:06, a number that I’m sure I could fit together, but it would be a more complicated toy, such as an Erector Set, and I just don’t have the energy left to figure it out.
Suffering from insomnia is much like getting high; the only difference being that you’re grumpy and you don’t have a desire for Cheetos. While these discoveries are completely mind-blowing now, if I could simply sober up with a good night’s sleep, I would be ashamed that I ever thought anything that happened in my life after 2:00 am was even worth mentioning. But, I can’t, so I spend my night acting as John Nash in A Beautiful Mind, expecting to find hidden puzzles inside a simple piece of machinery that lets me know what time it is. The simple visual puzzles turn to more mathematic one, dealing in basic arithmetic. Can I pretend the colon is an equals sign if I add a mathematical symbol between the two minutes numbers? It shouldn’t be too hard.
My new game proves impossible until the clock turns to 4:13, but the victory is hollow, too easy. 4:14 is slightly more of an impressive win, but I’m still defeated by the realization that I had anxiously waited eight minutes to use 2nd grade math, which was followed by another epiphany; I will have to wait twenty-seven minutes before I will be able to use division and thirty-seven before subtraction. I’m left worrying that I will be left with only the most insufferable thoughts, my own. Luckily, I would only be stuck with myself for eight minutes.
It’s 4:22, and I begin to wrap around the interlocking digital 2s around my bedroom in the opposite direction as the 5s. This time, I won’t squander it.
My bedroom, now completely covered by 2s, seems to be brighter than ever, and I’m not sure whether it’s the incredible night vision I’ve developed from staring at walls in a dark room or if the sun has started to rise, so I look out the curtain, and sure enough, I realize I need to eat more carrots. The sun is peering over the trees like a peeping Tom, the clock is screaming it’s 6:16 at me, and while I’m exhausted and angry that I’m still awake, I’m also elated with the fact that my game of basic mathematics has returned with multiplication.
Finally, just after the clock strikes 8:14, my eyelids droop, my head drops, a small amount of drool lubricates the left corner of my mouth, and what seems to be a pig starts noisily grunting from what could only be labor pains somewhere deep down in my throat. And, just as the clock strikes 8:15, my wife lightly shakes my living corpse enough to wake me up. She tells me, “It’s time to get,” then promptly falls back asleep.
It’s 8:15 a.m. when I realize I want a divorce.
When I finally tire off connecting my tower of LEGO imaginary digital 5s wrap around my bedroom twice, as if it were police crime scene tape, roping off the area so I can draw a chalk outline around the bodies of the sheep that have died from exhaustion, forced to repeatedly jump over my bed as I count them, I take another look at the clock. It’s 4:06, a number that I’m sure I could fit together, but it would be a more complicated toy, such as an Erector Set, and I just don’t have the energy left to figure it out.
Suffering from insomnia is much like getting high; the only difference being that you’re grumpy and you don’t have a desire for Cheetos. While these discoveries are completely mind-blowing now, if I could simply sober up with a good night’s sleep, I would be ashamed that I ever thought anything that happened in my life after 2:00 am was even worth mentioning. But, I can’t, so I spend my night acting as John Nash in A Beautiful Mind, expecting to find hidden puzzles inside a simple piece of machinery that lets me know what time it is. The simple visual puzzles turn to more mathematic one, dealing in basic arithmetic. Can I pretend the colon is an equals sign if I add a mathematical symbol between the two minutes numbers? It shouldn’t be too hard.
My new game proves impossible until the clock turns to 4:13, but the victory is hollow, too easy. 4:14 is slightly more of an impressive win, but I’m still defeated by the realization that I had anxiously waited eight minutes to use 2nd grade math, which was followed by another epiphany; I will have to wait twenty-seven minutes before I will be able to use division and thirty-seven before subtraction. I’m left worrying that I will be left with only the most insufferable thoughts, my own. Luckily, I would only be stuck with myself for eight minutes.
It’s 4:22, and I begin to wrap around the interlocking digital 2s around my bedroom in the opposite direction as the 5s. This time, I won’t squander it.
My bedroom, now completely covered by 2s, seems to be brighter than ever, and I’m not sure whether it’s the incredible night vision I’ve developed from staring at walls in a dark room or if the sun has started to rise, so I look out the curtain, and sure enough, I realize I need to eat more carrots. The sun is peering over the trees like a peeping Tom, the clock is screaming it’s 6:16 at me, and while I’m exhausted and angry that I’m still awake, I’m also elated with the fact that my game of basic mathematics has returned with multiplication.
Finally, just after the clock strikes 8:14, my eyelids droop, my head drops, a small amount of drool lubricates the left corner of my mouth, and what seems to be a pig starts noisily grunting from what could only be labor pains somewhere deep down in my throat. And, just as the clock strikes 8:15, my wife lightly shakes my living corpse enough to wake me up. She tells me, “It’s time to get,” then promptly falls back asleep.
It’s 8:15 a.m. when I realize I want a divorce.