I am a borderline insomniac.
Thankfully, I have resisted the need to use a sleep aid. So far at least. My dear almost-80 year old grandmother sleeps probably 3 hours a night. Pardon me for a minute while I go pray that it's not genetic.
I was recently reading one of my favorite bloggers and she was discussing the crazy-ass dreams she has while taking the medication, Cymbalta. She was talking about running from things and spiders falling in her bed and lots of other random things. And it occurred to me... I don't even NEED drugs to have dreams that are crazier than that! Could you imagine me on drugs?!?!
It would be wise of me to start a dream journal, where I document each morning the ridiculousness that happens in my head each night. Really, it's no surprise I never feel well-rested. My imagination is on over-drive almost every night. And people wonder why I have to force myself to focus on redecorating my house in order to even fall asleep. Could you imagine the things I would be thinking about if not? It would probably range from freaking out about work to thinking about what to pack for my trip to Europe next summer to wondering why there aren't pink elephants in the wild.
Oh, yes, but those dreams. Sometimes they're seemingly mundane, like my best friend and I becoming cheerleaders. But they go into such detail... right down to the ghetto neighborhood store we had to frequent to buy our new cheerleading outfits and how Miss wouldn't take off her sweatpants under her cheerleader skirt and then we tried to buy Carolina Gamecock hoodies but the Gamecock wasn't the real logo because there was pink and green on it and almost every sweatshirt in the place had rainbow stripes down the sleeves.
Personal favorites from over the years include the cast of Full House murdering my pet collie or the tap dancing penguins in top hats dancing through fire. Or the time that traffic got backed up on the highway because there was a bright blue three-headed turtle on the middle of a bridge. Or that underwater tiger I was desperately trying to swim away from. Maybe it was a lion? Or that time Robbie Williams and I were running from the police and after running down hills and through creeks, he managed to disappear up an embankment just leaving watery footprints. The morning after that dream, I even remembered the license plate number on our getaway car. And I had one recently where Puff left me in the middle of the night to go visit The Slutasian because she had emailed all her friends that she was super sick and dying but turned out she was just on her period.
Maybe if I got back to writing creatively, I could channel some of this vivid imagination and then maybe, just maybe, I could know what it felt like to have a restful night's sleep. One can only wish.
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