The problem with being half nocturnal, half diurnal, a sleep-onset insomniac, a sleep-maintaining insomniac and an early riser is—well, self-explanatory, really. I’m awake during times when I should be sleeping. I should be asleep during times when I would normally be awake. And usually, the times when my body decides it’s finally exhausted enough to sleep, it’s at such an inopportune time that I just don’t get to.
In short, I’m fucked.
Also, beyond tired and more likely to catch whatever cold or flu is making its way through the population.
Went to bed at around 4am this morning and woke up at 8am: hungry. Yeah, I am apparently ruled by my appetites, and today my body decided that, rather than remain asleep and possibly get working on a sleep deficit that rivals the national debt, I had to have oatmeal.
Oatmeal, gentle readers. What. The. Fuck.
Fortunately I have oatmeal in the house (this is a minor miracle, and also the only food I have in the house. I shop for food about as often as I clean my room). Sated with said apple-cinnamon flavored oatmeal and still exhausted, I decided to go back to sleep for the next several hours.
Sleep deficit: check. Cold: check. Inability to get back to sleep: check. Many things to do today: check.
So, this means I am going to be out in the world, shambling around, moaning and groaning and generally looking and feeling like death warmed over.
All of which is to say, to those of you who are convinced of the imminence of the zombie apocalypse, please don’t shoot me in the head unless I actually try to bite you. I’d hate to be the first casualty in the war against zombies because I can’t sleep—although it might be faster than being a casualty of the lack of sleep itself.
On that note, I am going back to bed.
Zombies have become so popular we even have a television show about them, now. They have a dance troupe, and small children have been known to stalk me, growling: “brains!”. I think one might recently have been voted into office (a zombie, not a small child. Actually, probably both).
More importantly, I have noticed that the majority of zombie flicks generally view the zombie apocalypse as a bad thing. But as a single, unemployed American lacking in basic health care, I have to say: is it, really?
I woke up this morning with the knowledge that I am still jobless and almost out of the inhaler that keeps me breathing on a daily basis. With no national health care option, I am actually kinda fucked.
Then, light bulb!—What if there were a zombie apocalypse?
I would be able to—after killing a number of the freaky undead, of course—just walk into a pharmacy, grab some Advair, some Vicodin, and some hair product, and walk right out again. That’s right, folks. The zombie apocalypse would be national healthcare. National health care—plus vicodin!
But why stop illuminating there, light bulb? Think about it!
- The mortgage crisis—not to mention the stress about having to pay rent: OVER!
- Frustration with public transportation: OVER!
- Uncomfortable political conversations: OVER!
- Reality TV: OVER!
Okay, yeah. I get it. The price of all of this beautiful freedom and ability to breathe is having to shoot the occasional family member or friend in the head, because if you shoot them anywhere else, they will keep on comin’. But it’s only the humane thing to do, folks.
I should point out for you pessimists out there that it works out the same if I become a zombie—breathing, rent, food, political discussions, hair product: all a non-issue. Health care or Hell care? I’ll take what I can get these days.