The Mona Lisa Sleep

Bed. 2:38am – For absolutely no deducible reason I find myself awake. A mere two and a bit hours after drifting off, and I am conscious. Wide-eyed, brain-racing. I’m not ready for this. I know it will come to no good. I’ll just have a wee and drink a bit of milk from the carton like Mum told me never to do and then go back to sleep. Lovely, squishy, blissy sleep.

Bed. 2:51am – Came back from the wee and milk trip quite some time ago. Something seems to have gone amiss with The Plan.

Bed. 3:02amSeriously?

Bed. 3:34am – Actually. I don’t mind being awake. I really don’t. There is so much I can be getting on with. Admin. Life decisions. Re-piecing 2004. (What was it?) I have at least six garments that need stitching because of doorways getting in my way. I could do those. This partial insomnia is going to turn me into Wonder Woman. I will have solved most of the world’s problems by the time I get up and put my pants on. Who knows how awesome things are going to get once I have actually put them on. STRAP THE FUCK IN, WORLD!

Bed. 3:42am – Huh. Apparently, according to strangefacts.com, it is illegal to drink beer out of a bucket while you’re sitting on a kerb in St. Louis. It is also illegal to pawn your dentures in Las Vegas, AND the Mona Lisa has no eyebrows. I think tonight is going to turn out to be more useful to me than university. I can’t believe I have wasted so much of my life sleeping.

Bed. 3:46am – My eyeballs ache. This must be what the Mona Lisa feels like. She’s hasn’t shut her eyes for about five hundred years. No wonder she’s so aesthetically enigmatic. Her eyeballs are devoid of any trace of moisture and her inner monologue is shot to shit. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s completely dead inside, and not just because she’s oil on wood.

Bed. 3:49am – Might have some more milk. And put some coco pops in it. No one will know. I AM THE ONLY ONE ALIVE.

Bed. 3:58am – What the fuck are the foxes doing? It’s making me feel dirty. But – if I think about it, which I am temporally disposed to do – not entirely unaroused. I’ve got half a mind to go out there and…oh dear. My feet are stuck down the gap at the end of the bed.

Bed. 3:59am – My feet are free. It’s like bloody Twelve Years A Slave, with less crying. That could have been quite awkward come the morning. Last time I went out with a bed around my ankles people thought I was an art installation. Perhaps if I’d done it for long enough I would have won an award or something, and would now be slumbering like an arty winner, instead of BEING AWAKE LIKE A TOTAL LOSER.

Bed. 4:14am – Why did I look at the clock. If I look at the clock and see 4s, I think of the medium who said that’s the time dead people are letting me know they are here. Who would do that to a person? It’s not nice to make people feel as thought a seance is going to whip up around them if they so much as stir to scratch in the middle of the night. I DON’T CARE IF YOU’RE MY GREAT GREAT GRANDFATHER AND HAVE UNFINISHED BUSINESS IN THE MORTAL REALM, I WAS JUST SCRATCHING MY ARSE. I might write to that medium and tell him he should be more mindful of potentially ruining people’s mental witching hour well-being for life. In fact I might do it now. And catch up on some other correspondence. I’VE GOT THE BLOODY TIME.

Bed. 4:39am – I have sent three business emails (well, one business, two non-essential), and no one has got back to me yet. People are so lax. I shall go onto Twitter to kill some time while they formulate their responses to me. Trouble with Twitter at this time in the morning is it’s like being stuck in a lift with Cher and William Shatner. Which sounds great when you initially think of it, but then when you really think of it, you’ll realise it isn’t.

Bed. 4:44am – As far as I am aware there are no dead people in the room.

Bed. 5:23am – I totally and utterly hate birds. They are sarcastic, passive-aggressive, spiteful, and if I’m honest, not even that great at singing. IT ALL SOUNDS THE SAME, YOU DICKS. GET ANOTHER TUNE. YOU’RE WORSE THAN BRITNEY SPEARS. BECAUSE ACTUALLY BRITNEY IS STILL PRETTY COOL EVEN THOUGH NO ONE WANTS TO ADMIT IT.

Bed. 5:42am – I am consoling myself with the thought of commuters on the early trains looking more miserable than I feel. In suits and painful pointy shoes.

Bed. 6:00am – I MIGHT GO FOR A JOG!

Bed. 6:01am – HA HA HA HAAAA. I am hilarious at 6am. Why is no one here to see it.

Bed. 7:00am – Boyfriend’s alarm goes off. That’s it. The day has officially begun. He just got up and did some fake Rocky punching and told me to have ‘the eye of the tiger’ today. “Go gettum, champ.” CAN’T HE SEE I DON’T EVEN HAVE EYES ANYMORE? I just have the desiccated husk-holes where my eyes used to be. I am like a skull in a cave in an Indiana Jones film, except Harrison Ford has never stuck his fingers in my holes.

Bed. 7:07am – Only just noticed the birds and the foxes fucked off. Fickle wankers. If they’re asleep I’m going to infiltrate their dens and climb into their nests and make sex noises and sing really badly and…and…something. And something.

Bed. 7:21am – I NEED TO KNOW THAT LIFE WILL GET BETTER, THAT THIS ISN’T IT, THAT SLEEP WILL COME AND DRAPE ITS BENEVOLENCE OVER ME ONCE MORE, THAT THIS SUFFERING WILL FADE AND DIM TO THE QUIET NOTHINGNESS OF AN UNREMEMBERED DREAM, THAT… Shit. My foot’s stuck again. Luckily, I’ve got a technique for this now.

By The Kettle, Kitchen. 7:32am – Tea. Tea will fix me. Right? I’ll drink it. Right after…this little…snooze…. Ouch. I forgot I boiled the kettle. I might pick my face up off of it…in a bit.

Absolutely nothing going on inside.
Absolutely nothing going on inside.

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One Comment Add yours

  1. John Coleman says:

    This one is a stitch, Sadie. Thanks, John

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