On the edge of the bed

When the insomnia started to get bad, I determined, to my surprise and to my doctor’s, that significant physical activity tended to make matters worse: all the endorphins and none of the fatigue. This finding suggested that I should confine the yard work to Friday and Saturday, since I don’t have to get up at six the next day.

Then Thursday evening presented me with 75-degree weather and a front lawn that had grown rather a lot in six days, so I decided to risk it. The results were Not Awful, and gleeful at the prospect of not having to do any of this stuff on a Saturday, I finished my ten-hour work day Friday and attacked the back yard, which is way larger.

Sore, though not especially tired, I betook myself to bed about a quarter to ten, and stayed there eleven and a half hours. And judging by the condition of the bed this morning, it was a rough night indeed. No fewer than three narratives were played out in dreams:

  • Cher, of all people, had consented to appear in an online centerfold, on the condition that the photo be impossible to reproduce elsewhere on the Net. I was attempting to do exactly that, and failing: the handy Save As command didn’t work, since the filename kept changing randomly, and none of my graphics tools could get a grip on the file.

  • I was attending a session at a Guatemalan bingo hall, hosted by someone who looked a lot like Wink Martindale. I had no problem with the processional, during which we were blindfolded; however, those who wanted a place in the competition area were asked to surrender their shoes temporarily, and I never got mine back for some reason. While searching in the coat-check room, I managed to pull down a set of blinds, and discovered some very un-Bingo-like materials: I’ve played this game before, and no one has ever called out “C-4.”
  • A desperately-ill child has undergone an amazing synthesis: the body was allowed to die, and the consciousness was somehow uploaded into a device the size of a Treo. Which wouldn’t be a problem, exactly, except that someone has infected the poor kid with some sort of virus, and Venomous Kate and I are searching the backwoods of northern Missouri for clues to the identity of the perpretrator.

Note to self: Take fewer drugs.







2 comments

  1. fillyjonk »

    6 September 2008 · 12:24 pm

    I don’t even TAKE drugs (well, other than Claritin) and I have horrible dreams like that where I wake up going “The heck?”

    The only way for me to avoid them is to avoid sensory stimulation of ANY kind as much as possible during that day. And given my life, that doesn’t really work.

  2. CGHill »

    6 September 2008 · 12:35 pm

    Well, yesterday’s complement of pharmaceuticals, other than the dailies (stuff for my blood sugar and blood pressure, mostly) was this: 1 Mobic (NSAID); 1 Flexeril (muscle relaxant); 1 Unisom (sleep tab). Nothing industrial-strength, really. Still, that’s three extra tablets, and God — if not the FDA, necessarily — knows what sort of interactions might be taking place.

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