All day I wondered how much sleep I actually got. As I laid in the dark downstairs at 5:50 AM I remembered how once I scoffed at sleep, regarded it as a bothersome imposition. Sleep was for the weak. Sleep was for incurious dullards. In a way I still feel this way; a friend once noted I’m the only person he knows who actually manages to live the way he did in college and still make a decent living. Staying up late still seems like the best perk of adulthood. I’ve always regarded the world as divided into two warring camps: the House of Night and the House of Morning. (I have tolerance for people who belong to the latter, of course. Mine is a religion of peaceful coexistance.) Now I live in both camps, and I buy only candles that have wicks fore and aft. I like it this way. I do. The small post-supper nap keeps me going; the mornings give me time with my daughter, and the evenings end with 90 minutes of TV that scour away all the drivel and contrusions of the day. So why am I writing now? Why aren’t I watching Episode 4 of the Sopranos?
If only he was stuck in a horrible, soul-sucking, dead-end job - we would be soulmates.