ANXIETY HELL

Yesterday was one of those anomalous days wherein the elusive concept of productivity sounded like a fun way to spice up my quotidian routine.

 

(Read: I may have accidentally ingested a tall boy of Monster, a mug of coffee, and upwards of one niblit off an Adderall pill.)

 

My day went well enough.

 

(Meaning I did not nap from the hours of noon to 11:59 in the p.m. only to rise for a one woman showing of The Big Lebowski pre-night nap.)

 

Unfortunately, it turned out SOMEbody did not share in my laudable energy output goals and was under the mistaken impression that midnight would be an acceptable hour for him to go to bed.

 

“Pshaa!” I said. “You can sleep when you’re anesthetized against your will in the mental ward of a Turkish prison.”

 

I was shocked to discover my logically sound argument did not sway him.

 

“I’m so tired. I feel like my brain is going to explode,” a certain whiner complained.

 

How he had enough energy, then, to incoherently mumble that he was too tired to play Boom Boom Rocket until I kicked his ass till it bled is beyond me.

 

Even more confounding, given his alleged state of exhaustion, was how he mustered up the oomph to add, “What, did you get into some crack today? You’re like an insane ball of energy – stop humping my leg! What? No. Seriously, I said I don’t want to play Connect Four like fifteen times already.”

 

“Well, fine,” I said. “Marriage is about compromise. You only have to connect three.”

 

“Oh my God.”

 

“Two?”

 

“What’s wrong with you tonight?”

 

“What’s wrong with your face!” I high-fived myself.

 

Unintelligible moaning from my not side of the bed.

 

As you can imagine, I found his response irksome. So I did what any productive, goal-oriented person would do and dedicated myself to my objectives of getting both some delicious nachos and a nocturnal not-nemesis.*

 

*There is no useable synonym for “friend” that starts with an N and alliterations are the spice of literature, so just shut your pieholes and welcome not-nemisis into your vernacular.

 

“You will play with me. You want to enjoy a steamy box of chips smothered in cheese-flavored liquid. You are getting very, very not sleepy.”

 

When my laudable attempt at hypnosis proved too complex for his unenlightened unconscious to grasp, I reasoned that a guilt trip was in order. But it had to be compelling. It had to rouse this dead beat from his semi-slumber. It had to inspire the kind of get-up-and-go that would help me avoid a sleepless night with nothing but my Netflix on demand to entertain me. I didn’t want to watch Whale verses Shark, not this night anyway. I wanted a man on demand, goddamnit!

 

Having no other viable option, I decided to showcase my dire need for an anti-sleep ally through the art of song and dance.

 

“Puma,” I said. “I just transposed my inner screamings into a soothing lyrical rendition which shall commence now. Please pay attention.”

 

More indecipherable whimpering.

 

“Okay then.” I pointed my ballerina toes and swooped into the performance of my life. This routine involved no less than five (attempts at) triple axels, all of which were completed in close proximity to his head for optimum viewing pleasure. Twirl-crashing into the mini blinds, I sang my heart out, skillfully capturing the pain his refusal to rise was causing me.

 

“Lonely couch, lonely couch, the prospect of it makes my heart say ouch.”

 

My operatic crooning crescendoed into such a moving falsetto that my lower neighbor applauded on his ceiling/my dance floor with what sounded like a broom or perhaps an inordinately long dildo, I cannot be sure which due to my obvious point of view constraints.

 

And while said neighbor’s thunderous approval was encouraging – so encouraging, in fact, that I gave him an encore performance of both River Dance and Stomp – it was clear that my intended audience was not to be persuaded. Indeed esoteric art is so oft lost on such philistines.

 

Losing steam, dejected and denied (and also nursing a newly gimped out footatarel joint) I gathered up my blankets and trudged to the sofa where I laid down with my Costco stockpile of Fiber One bars. As I bit into the rich chocolaty roughage, I noticed I was holding a makeshift mic. There was only one thing to do:

 

“Fiber couch, fiber couch, the daily recommended dose bloats my marsupial pouch. Fiber couch, fiber couch, tomorrow morning you’ll make my colon say ouch. Fiber couch, fiber couch, man I’m getting really tired now. Damnbien time, Damnbien time, because I’m too exhausted to end this rhyme.”

 

No more Adderall, no more Adderall, it makes me stay up until four a.m. writing blog posts that are really baderall.