It's been real, 2012.

My NYE is going to consist of the following, not necessarily in order or at separate times:

1) Drink boxed wine.
2) Write/edit/draw/etc.
3) Watch "Lord of the Rings" appendices.
4) Clean.
5) Walk Zola.
6) Possibly have sex, depending on Three's level of awakeness.
7) Go to sleep.

Honestly, this anticlimactic shtick of mine has been going on since 2006, although at first it was due to a pretty traumatic 2005 NYE in which I was struggling from a deep depression that ended up lasting well into the first quarter of 2006. My roommate, as any wonderful friend would do, forced me out of our dorm room and into her car for a drive out to Manchester, where some friends of hers were having a NYE party. It was awkward, even with the roommate trying to keep me from focusing on bad thoughts, and it seemed like everyone at the party knew to kind of avoid talking to me. While a welcome respite from small talk, the embarrassment of being That Girl at the Party was enough to make me curl up on the couch, away from everyone else, and watch the TV with all its confetti and laughing and cheering and hopefulness. As the ball dropped, I found myself alone, holding a fluke of pink champagne that was mixed with my own tears.

It's the fancy version of the old country staple, "tears in my beer(s)."

Almost understandably, I decided to spend the next New Year's holiday by myself. I was living with my parents at the time, and they had invited me along to their friends' party. It was only a half-serious invite, since I would have been the only 23-year-old at a 50-and-above soiree, but I gratefully declined, instead curling up in my bed with a book and a cup of hot cocoa. I fell asleep before the final countdown*; I didn't come up with any resolutions that year; and I treated it like any other day, a set of actions that I believe actually helped complete the healing process I'd started the year before.

If 2012 has been anything for me, it definitely has been a year of self-discovery. I figured out that, yes, indeed, my job was slowly killing my soul. I realized that, yes, indeed, I am one who operates best with few if any outward constraints. It's the final act of what began as me trying to conquer depression in 2005. Now, I'm not saying that I have been in a state of depression since then, but I have been examining exactly what caused me to get there in the first place.

My longest relationship to date (although Three and I will have this beat by March 2013) ended in 2005, and it was particularly difficult, for several reasons. First, the only reason it lasted that long was because I let it. I was actually done with the relationship after about six months but kept telling myself that it was a phase and that he was the best thing I was ever going to find. It took nearly four years for me to finally admit that I never really loved him the way I should have. Sure, I cared for him as I do a close friend. But I was selfish and made the whole process of breaking up for him that much harder, because I do believe that he loved me. Second, we had taken a short break earlier that year at my insistence, but I, out of loneliness and insecurity, had come to him, wanting to try again. We treated each other horribly during these last few months together. We were both resentful for different reasons. His was because he subconsciously wanted me to pay for hurting him, and mine was due to me blaming him for my own lack of self-sufficiency. Neither reason healthy, he did the honorable thing of ending our relationship, which brings me to the third difficulty: he did this at 11:45P on the night right before my birthday, six days before Christmas. In one of my most pathetic moments, I begged for him to give me another chance. I actually cringe at this now. After hanging up the phone, I managed to go upstairs and put my head in my father's lap and sob. Of course, he had no idea what was going on, but he stroked my hair and just let me cry.

The rest of the holiday season was kind of a blur. I know that it was tedious for my family and friends, and I'm pretty sure I've apologized to every single one of them at least 45 times each. I was this weird shell of a person, and honestly, I'm surprised that I managed to graduate the following semester. It's a wonder that I ever got out of bed. But I did, and I was able to walk across the stage to get my diploma for a degree that I have yet to actually fucking use. And I started a tradition that I have basically kept since: I don't really like celebrating my birthday in any big fashion (we had a grilled chicken dinner at my parents' house this year) and NYE is so low-key that it might as well not even exist for me.

"That is the most lackluster ball I've ever seen. Where's my boxed wine?"

As the years went on, though, I realized that the breakup and my subsequent depression weren't really the heart of the issue and that I was avoiding the real reason that the latter happened. I had limited and defined myself by another person, another entity, which for a Sagittarius is the ultimate sin. I had singularly put my happiness into the idea that this one person, this one relationship, was going to keep me happy and satisfied because he loved me. Not because I loved him. And the New Year resolutions were the same: I was limiting myself to what the following year could mean for me, almost a sort of prediction of fate that I despise making. My mother calls me a free spirit, which I think is a partial insult, but it's fairly accurate. It's not that I am just a leaf on the wind; I trust that what will happen will happen and that, since I have little to no control over it, why worry? All I can do is live my life in the attempt to love all and to do what I am here to do. To try to do anything more just seems kind of silly to me.

So today will end, and tomorrow, the first day of 2013, will begin. I am actually very excited to see where this year goes, seeing as we managed to avoid at least three apocalypses this year**. I see what incredible things occurred this year, which yeah, is infinitely more awesome than the previous year***, and I'm actually excited for the future and its possibilities. I have stories nearly pouring out of me, a great set of friends, a wonderful family, plenty of art supplies, and it's going to be a good year.

Peace out, 2012.

* Because NO ONE ELSE WILL POSSIBLY THINK OF THIS! AI R JEENYUS. (Also, I cannot hear this song without seeing Gob and a knife in his mouth.)

** Don't get your hopes up yet, folks. Ronald Weinland has revised his prediction that Jesus will return on May 19, 2013. Because these guys just DO.NOT.GIVE.UP.
*** A final FUCK YOU to 2011.

GUISE SRSLY

This gif has been me all morning, crossed eyes and all. You'd think that a Saturday would be the antithesis to stress, what with it being the weekend and all, but noooooooo.

And because the situation that is causing my distress really is a giant first world problem sort of thing, I'm just going to stop and take a breath because what I really want to be doing is this:

Dreams.

My brain is a crazy place to live most of the time, what with characters constantly talking to me and vivid images breaking in, like a damned musical number in a Bollywood film. I have developed the ability to multitask during the day, letting my imagination run wild and actually, like, doing shit. I'm not always successful in this, but I'm a hell of a lot better at it now that I'm older.

But that's my brain during my waking hours. My time spent sleeping or on the way there is a completely different story.

I remember most of what I dream, although the majority of it is just my subconscious randomly splicing together weird visual metaphors and quick, nonsensical cuts to whatever it thinks of next. It's like the regular me on hyperdrive. Sometimes it's dealing with the fears that I have yet to overcome. I cannot tell you how many times I have had Three cheat on or leave me since we got together. Shudder.

At other times, it's downright creepy. I've dreamed actual conversations that have later happened in real life, sometimes months later. Usually, they're nothing to write home about; they're more along the lines of, "Hey, can you pass the butter?" in excitement. However, they're very specific in word or gesture, and each time, I'm like, "ZOMG, I'M PSYCHIC." It just gets eerier when I dream of very ominous things; we're talking apocalyptic levels of ominousness. Once, I dreamed that I woke up after a cataclysmic event, among a bunch of rubble, only to realize I was one of the only survivors of whatever happened. Another time, there was an alien invasion of sorts: a giant storm with a red center eye beamed an energy wave of sorts over everything, but I hid. The next day, it was as if nothing had changed, except that everyone was treating me strangely, and I was able to switch to one of their perspectives and see myself with a completely gold aura.

That last one? Yeah, it has stuck with me. Kind of like my most recent dream*, which had me feeling amused, unnerved, and terrified at the same time when I woke up. There was a young kid that was the star of a reality show that's entire premise was him finding his mother. Unbeknownst to his viewers, the kid was really a type of Frankenstein monster and his adoptive father was the scientist who'd built him or whatever. And there was also cannibalism, complete with a human barbecue, which was not so fun. And somewhere along the way, I became invisible only to realize I was now an armoire. Because, DREAM.

Somewhere, in the far reaches of my brain, that makes sense. 

I'm one of those people that can't wait to get to sleep just so s/he can dream, and the last two are just reasons as to why. Sure, I love curling up in bed for much needed rest as much as the next person, but my mind can be a fun, if not baffling place. Most of the time, I'm able to bounce them off of Three, who sometimes has equally strange dreams, and he nearly always can tell me the possible deeper meaning of my brain wanderings. Sometimes, we both just shake our heads at the absolute randomness, and usually, those are the most fun.

See, now I am all excited to get to sleep tonight.

*I'm determined to use this dream as an inspiration. I've been toying with doing a screenplay for a really long time, and I'm kinda thinking that this could be It. When I had the unnerving dream about the alien invasion, I was just certain that it was the greatest movie premise ever. But the Franken-kid? I have different themes already running through my head (humanity, reality television, family, having children being freaking scary, etc.) that I'd want to explore. And it would actually be fairly inexpensive to film, so plus there.

My mother accuses me of screening my calls, which is only partially true. If I don't know what the number is that's calling, I don't answer. It's a habit I picked up when telemarketers first bought all the rights to phone numbers everywhere, or however that actually worked*. And now, since long distance charges seem to be a thing of the past - unless it's a land line, also a hopefully soon-to-be relic - I get calls from across the U.S. and once, Mexico. Just a few days ago, someone from Utah called me. They didn't leave a message, though, so I'm thinking either it was a wrong number or a telemarketer. Sometimes I get curious and google the number, and usually, I'm met with a website telling me that, if I pay them $10, they will give me all the information they have on that particular number. By that time, though, I've lost interest and decided to go about the rest of my day, which does not include paying someone to tell me that the person that just called me has an unregistered local number.

I'll keep my $10, thanks. For the good porn. 

Other times, though, people do leave messages. One guy bitched at me because I had cheated on him with his best friend and why would I even do such a thing when he'd been so good to me. Another person thought she'd hung up on the voicemail and instead went about complaining to someone that she'd been Faked Numbered. The local VFW once left me an invite to a karaoke night, and I kind of regret not going. A lady apologized profusely for wasting my time, and I'm fairly sure she thought she was talking to a real person. During the months prior to the election, I got prerecorded messages from various candidates, all of which made me roll my eyes. I mean, seriously, guys. You had commandeered my television, my radio, and then you decided to go after my cell phone. And then the telemarketers. Oh, goodness. They're usually prerecorded messages that I instantaneously delete, but occasionally, it's an actual human being leaving a bit of their corporate-indoctrinated** soul behind in audio form.

I've been there. Oh, I've been there. 

It's the prerecorded ones that really piss me off, though. I mean, I get that it costs money to employee these phone operators, but if a company was trying to show they know how to treat their customers, you'd think that they'd want an actual person on their end of the line. But apparently, you'd be wrong. Because ZOMG they'd have to hire people and that costs money.

Yesterday, I got a call from a 423 number and was a little confused as to why someone in East Tennessee would be calling me***, but as my habit insisted, I waited to see if the caller would leave a message, which unfortunately it did. And yes, I did call it an "it." Because guess what. It was an automated message.

Greetings and happy holidays! We here at Blue Cross Blue Shield know that the holidays can be a stressful time. A lot of our customers have noted that seasonal depression is at its highest during this time of the year, so we wanted to let you know that, through Blue Cross Blue Shield of Tennessee, we have an extensive list of providers who offer various therapies to help you through these difficult times. [blahblahblah]

Now, this was greatly paraphrased and shortened, obviously; the message was about two minutes long, which huh? The last time I left a two minute message on someone's voicemail was by accident and consisted primarily of muffled cursing as I drove in downtown Nashville traffic. I was just so baffled by this that I actually listened to the whole thing before shaking my head and deleting it forever from my phone.

Seriously, what is this, BC/BS?

For the record, I am not trying to discount depression around this time of the year. I suffer from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) because I am a special flower who needs sunlight and warmth to blossom. At least, that's what I tell myself. And the holidays aren't always the happy ending from "It's a Wonderful Life." Sometimes, your life is what would have happened had George not been born, and this particular time of the year tends to stuff its 'tis the season spirit down our throats like its job depends on it****. A lot of people feel alone around Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Yule/etc., too, and what does BC/BS do? Oh, they send you a recorded message from computerized person (which was made by a giant, impersonal corporation) telling you it understands the fact you are depressed because you aren't connecting with real people.

How meta.

I mean, I kinda have to give them props for using technology to spread awareness of something that people don't like to talk about or like to make fun of*****, but you know what? I have an email account for spam like that; you have my email address on file, and it's a lot easier to delete those. My mom forwards me stuff with more sincerity than this, and I don't really need a half-assed pick-me-up attempt from my damned health insurance company.

That is what booze is for.

And also SAD lamps.

* God, how old do I feel right at this very moment? I remember when cell phones were not called by telemarketers. I also remember using phone books. Why do they still print those now? TRADITION.
** I really do feel for telemarketers. Most of them are just regular people who are trying to make a living, and unfortunately, the only job they could find was dealing with people (read: all humankind) who hate them. If by the off chance I pick up, I try to be nice to them and talk to them about things other than the reason they called. Some of them can be rude about this, and those guys? Yeah, they can fuck themselves. I'll hang right up on your ass.
*** I learned a lot of random things as an eligibility counselor for the state of Tennessee. One was area codes. I now know all of Tennessee, Kentucky, Mississippi, Alabama, Florida, and Michigan. Yay, me.
**** And it kind of does. I was seeing Christmas decorations before fucking Halloween. Poor Thanksgiving.

On being neighborly.

As far as neighbors go, I'm pretty great. For the most part, I keep to myself, don't have any wild parties, cook normal-smelling meals, ensure that my dog's feces remain in the proper areas, etc. I'm also fairly friendly; I'll interact with you politely and will, on occasion, even talk for extended periods with you. Sometimes, GASP, I will even become friends with you. The couple that shares a divided balcony with us is actual on a first-name basis with us, although Three frequently forgets the man's name*, which is currently a long-running joke with the four of us. However, I cannot say the same nice things about everyone in our complex.

I've been in the apartment scene since I was 19 years old, so having bizarre neighbors and terrible landlords is nothing new to me. Back in college, I lived across the parking lot from a drug dealer, who seemed to think everyone else was oblivious to the fact he had "friends" come to his place for fifteen minutes at a time. Now, apparently, the landlord had no idea what was going on (or else had Academy Award training) because, when the guy was stabbed and sent to the hospital after a drug deal went bad, she was all, "OMG, HE SEEMED LIKE SUCH A NICE GUY!"

"I mean, he had never left his apartment for a job or for a class or anything and yet always managed to have rent money. I just thought he ran an internet store full of Beanie Babies or something!" - actual quote

Then there was the cat lady, who had adopted all the stray cats in my college town. And also the LARPers who lived downstairs who held tournaments inside on rainy/cold days. Ahhh, the good ol' days.

Actually, I would take all of those people, plus other ones that I can't remember off of the top of my head, in exchange for the rest of the people I'm forced to live close to. Well, most of them, anyway.

I've already posted about the bitch who let her fucking rat terrier bite my dog, and she and I have regular run-ins on the tri-daily walks I take Zola on. She actually snarls at me, but mostly, she keeps herself and her little shitface of a dog away from me. But she's not the only one who has reactions about Zola. There's an Indian man who hates my dog. Not just dislikes, but actively despises her. I don't really understand it, either, since she's never once gotten very close to him. She just kind of looks at him oddly whenever we pass, and he scowls at me and then her and says, "You keep that bastard away from me." I've asked a couple other dog owners in our complex about him, and they roll their eyes.

"He's that way about every dog," another neighbor told me. He owns quite possibly the cutest dog on the planet, a little shih tzu that essentially looks like this all the time:

And he never barks and is scared of moving leaves. Seriously. From A Place to Love Dogs.

Neither of us can understand what this dude's problem is, so we both came to the conclusion that he's crazy. But then I start to wonder about a lot of the other immigrants who live here that are terrified of Zola (and all dogs, I guess). There's one lady from Iraq that will go completely out of her way to make sure that she is as far away from Zola as possible, even when she's carrying about ten bags of groceries. I mean, the asshole guy may just be insane, but the others, almost all of whom are women, will all but scream and run away whenever they see her. With them, I try to be polite and walk Zola because, from what I can gather, this is a cultural thing and perhaps a PTSD thing.

And then there's Neighbor A, who I have purposefully avoided talking about because he creeps me out that much. He loves Zola, almost to an obsession. He talks about her like she's his girlfriend. For example, this conversation:

Neighbor A: Ahhhh, hello! How's everybody doing today? How are you, Zola?
Me: We're fine. She really has to go to the bathroom, A. I just got home and she hasn't peed in about six hours.
Neighbor A: Oh, well, okay! I'll come with you! Zola, I just want to make sure that you get everything you need! You're a beautiful girl that deserves the best! Let's find you the best pee spot in the world!
Me: ...
Zola: havetopeehavetopeehavetopeehavetopeeaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Neighbor A: (as Zola is peeing) Zola, when's your birthday? I want to get you something, like a diamond-encrusted collar. Does that suit your refined tastes?
Me: Seriously, her collar is fine.
Neighbor A: She might not think so.
Me: A, she's a dog.
Zola: Peepeepeepee pooppooppooppoop pet?
Neighbor A: Do you need me to watch her sometime? I could take her out on the town.
Me: No, thanks. We have to go inside now.
Neighbor A: Alright, Zola. Give me a kiss!!

Get away from me and my dog, you creeper. 

This man is ... interesting. Three met him first, while he was walking Zola, of course, and then I had the opportunity to do the same a few days later, also walking Zola. Neighbor A asked Three the next time he saw him if 1) I was his sister and 2) if he could play with Zola for an hour. I was definitely creeped out by him already, since he spent the whole time staring at my chest, but Three was determined to befriend the guy, who just seemed lonely. This determination lasted until Neighbor A told Three that watching Zola poop was the highlight of his day, since "she seems so happy," and insinuated that it turned him on. I can't remember the exact wording, but I nearly threw up when he said it.

Now, Neighbor A is also an aspiring music artist and has been trying to get Three and me to listen to his artistic endeavors. Since I avoid him at all costs, Three has been the one to actually agree to go over to his apartment. He was over there for about forty-five minutes, and when he came back, he closed the door and just started laughing hysterically. He described it as "black metal folk music sung in the style of Keebler elves." I feel a bit bad about mocking him on what he has called his life's work, but really?

How he got the lead guitarist of the band who played for Robert Plant and Alison Krauss to play on this album, I'll never know. (And Three verified that his claims were true.)

Anyway, moving on. Before we moved into our smaller apartment, we lived above a Pakistani family that, despite being some of the nicest people on the planet, had two major problems: 1) Their food at times smelled amazing and made me want to go down there to ask for a few pointers; other times? It smelled like feet that had been sitting in sewage all day. 2) Their children seemed to have this ability to run on the ceiling. To this day, I cannot figure out how they did it. However, I would take all of that in exchange for our new downstairs neighbor, who we'll call Frat Girl. How she hasn't been kicked out of the complex yet is beyond me. She has had more parties involving frat boys and her server contemporaries than I have had in my entire life, all of which take place at the most inopportune times. Like 3A. I have called our courtesy officer plenty of times, and she has had the gall to argue with him every time. Granted, she's been drunk and/or high each time, so whatever. Makes sense. Once, she was leading a Drunk Treasure Hunt, where they were basically making up treasures as they went along. One guy knocked on my door and asked for a pine cone, and when I told him I didn't have one, he asked for sugar for his absinthe. That wasn't so bad since it happened on a Saturday night when Three was at work, and it was a little entertaining to watch them scramble around for no reason. Also, she has some of the worst taste in music ever and sings (out of tune because, of course she would) it at the top of her lungs all. damned. day. Yesterday, it was Skrillex**, and how in the hell do you even try to sing to that, anyway? The other day, it was early 90s club music, and prior to that - and I think I was just angry because she was SO. BAD. at singing - she chose Weezer's blue album. But because dubstep bothers me much more than the others, I finally just went down there and was like, "Look, I get that you're home alone but seriously, if you're going to abuse my ears, at least take some singing lessons and choose better music." However, she was high, so she probably doesn't remember even talking to me. Or maybe she thinks it was a dream.

Whatever.

Lately, Frat Girl's been laying low, other than her at-home karaoke attempts, but I think that has more to do with the fact that the office called her father (who is her co-signer on the apartment) after four noise complaints. I've met her dad, who is a very, very imposing Russian dude. And I think her boyfriend probably nixed her having fifteen dudes (there were never any other girls at these parties) coming over to her apartment for drinking/drugging/sexytiming events. I can't say that I'm too upset about that.

And then there's our newest addition to the building, who we'll call Spikey Hair Lady. She moved in a few weeks ago and seemed okay. She was very friendly and super appreciative when we offered to help her move some of her furniture; she only had one other person helping her and Three is kind of built for this sort of thing. She was a little obnoxious and loud, but meh, I would be annoyed too if I bought a couch that didn't fit through the front door of my new apartment. But then what seemed to be straight out of some bizarre indie movie happened.

[INT. APARTMENT - EVENING]
Juju has been napping and hears a knock on the door. At first, she ignores it, thinking the person will eventually go away. But he/she keeps fucking knocking. Seriously. Like every two seconds. And the person keeps getting louder and more insistent. So Juju gets up and fumbles to the door, opening it to see Spikey Hair Lady.

Juju: Yes?
SHL: Oh. Were you sleeping?
Juju: I was. Can I help you?
SHL: I need to come into your apartment. 

SHL tries to push past Juju, who just glares at her.  

Juju: I'm sorry, what?
SHL: I need to see how you have your couch set up.
Juju: We don't have a couch.
SHL: [pause] Why?
Juju: We just don't.
SHL: Where do you sit?
Juju: We have chairs.
SHL: Can I come in?
Juju: No. 

Juju closes the door and goes back to sleep.
[DISSOLVE]***

Seriously. That is a true story. Both the actual thing and that we don't have a couch. Each time I manage to run into this lady, it's one more story of her intrusiveness. When we got the Lincoln, she tried to get into it. When my delivery Chinese came, she tried to invite herself to eat my one bowl of wonton soup. And she drives like an asshole, speeding through the parking lot like she's training for NASCAR. And she smokes like a damned chimney. Before she moved in, our hallway smelled like a normal hallway, albeit a little bit moldy****. Now, there's this lingering cigarette stench that makes me gag. She's not the only smoker in our building, but none of them smoke inside. They're courteous and go outside. She apparently thinks she should be able to make everyone miserable. Three and I have complained to the office, and we're not the only ones. I'm hoping they resolve this as quickly as they did with Frat Girl.

Even though there aren't a lot of really annoying people here, the sheer douche-ness of them kind of overshadow any other crap neighbors I've had. Now, Three has other stories (like the guys who broke into his apartment and stole all his computer and music equipment and ate his sugar-free chocolate pudding) but I don't know specific details on a lot of them. Hell, I may have him do a guest post one of these days. And anyway, we're definitely going to be moving elsewhere in March - closer to Three's work (and cheaper). I'm sure we'll have another group of annoying neighbors, but it'll take a lot to best these people.

God, I hope I didn't just jinx myself.

* This is not abnormal for him, anyway. He called me his ex-girlfriend's name for a while when we first got together, which amused me more than anything else. I mean, the guy was with her for four years, and I sometimes call him Zola, so we're even. He's just not very good remembering proper names of anything. For example, he went to see this Christian band and was talking about the performance with a friend, calling them Guitars of Light. His friend kept looking at him strangely and finally said, "You mean, Jars of Clay?"
** Okay, so I get that people have different ideas about what music is awesome and what isn't. I'm sure my mix of genres includes some music that is truly horrific to someone else. But dubstep. Really? I mean, really? I think Key and Peele describe it best: Dubstep is like "listening to music and then all of a sudden an alien tried to communicate with me." I have physical reactions to it, none of them good. Plus, look at this guy:

Even just looking at this makes me want to punch him. 

*** I don't actually know how scripts are written.
**** Our building is a unique one. The A and B buildings are connected by a common area that is basically an indoor garden, so when they water the plants, the moisture just kind of sticks around and ugh.

I sleep like the dead.

Three's work schedule has yet again changed, because hahahaha WHY THE HELL NOT, and he's back on first shift (6A - 2P). The last time he was on this shift, I was still working at DHS, and it was really rough. He was exhausted all of the time, since he's not so much of an early riser, so each time I'd come home from work, he'd just be about ready to go to bed. Second shift has been a big help to him, even though he kinda hates not ever being able to do anything socially. He'd actually prefer third shift, and not just because of the difference in differential pay. He's able to wake up more easily later on in the day; as it is right now, it takes him at least 45 minutes to completely wake up.

I, on the other hand, wake up within five minutes, if that. It's not that enjoy waking up; I hate it. Just ask my mom. She will tell you horror stories of forcing me out of bed and onto school. If given the chance to not have to sleep ever without any negative effects, I'd probably still give the option the middle finger.

But then I'd request that I be given the gift of flight instead.

Somehow, I can just spring up and be awake and *gasp* peppy. I'm that unwilling morning person, that person at the coffee maker in the office, telling everybody that she doesn't need coffee because she's caffeinated on LIFE. This was also a very useful tool in college because I'd wake up five minutes before class and be able to get there, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

That being said, when I go to sleep, I go to SLEEP. Good luck waking me, and if you do manage to accomplish this, expect a giant, cursing grizzly bear to rip your face off then proceed to cuddle back under the covers. However, I will remember none of it. 

Where's your right eyeball?

In the past, I have apparently yelled at the dog, talked to Three for an extended period of time (and made sense, which WHOA), mumbled at Bina when she jumped on my head, laughed at a joke in a movie, etc. Thankfully, I do not sleepwalk, which is actually a pretty big fear of mine. I don't want to wake up as I'm about to get hit by a car while wearing only socks. 

And this is just on regular nights. When I'm downright tuckered out, that's a completely different story, which brings us back to Three's new schedule. Half of me wants to write a pamphlet to employers on how to deal with diabetic employees, because every single boss that Three has had just simply does not understand that he needs a consistent schedule and time to take snack breaks. Instead, they push him to his furthest limits and are surprised when he doesn't perform as well. Anyway, in solidarity, I stayed up after he left for his second day of first shift suckage, after not being able to sleep at all the night before. I did a bit of writing, skimmed over Facebook and Twitter, read a few articles online and from a screenwriting book I borrowed from the library, and took Zola for a walk. I even tried doing a Jillian Michaels' workout after I noticed that I wasn't as tired when I was being active. I got about, oh, five minutes in before my body was like, "Nope, you crazy lady." So I changed, thinking I could trick myself, to a Firm video, and again, only a few minutes passed before I was just lying on the floor. 

I chose to congratulate myself, though, since I'd made it to 2:15P without going to bed. Three called me a few minutes later to let me know he was coming home. I remember apologizing to him over the phone for almost falling asleep and the next thing I knew, it was 3:45A and I was pissed that cold air was blowing in my face. Somehow, I'd managed to get up off of the floor and gotten into bed with no recollection of actually doing said action. Three was on the floor* and had turned on the air conditioner because he's insane. Well, he's just hot all the time because of a high metabolism, but also insane because he wants to live on an ice sheet. 

I don't wanna live at the South Pole.

As he climbed back into bed at my insistence, he explained that he'd tried to wake me when he got home but that I didn't even respond and he was kind of concerned that I might be dead. He apparently poked at me and I didn't make any noise, not even an irked grunt, so he leaned in and was relieved to hear my breathing.

Now, this kind of worries me. 

1) Would I wake up in an emergency? 

2) What if, when Three and I have a kid, it starts crying and I don't hear it because I am dead to the world?

3) Why am I weirdly proud of this?

These are all very important questions, I think. 

But here's the thing. I was even MORE awake than I usually am after this marathon death-sleep. I was chipper and ready to accomplish all the things. I was up before the sun rose, and I actually enjoyed it. It was bizarre. I consider myself a nightowl, and to be honest, I tend to get more done, at least creativity-wise, at night, since there are less distractions. But based on this new discovery, I may function better during daylight hours. 

I'm not sure what I think of this, although I'm secretly hoping that Three keeps this schedule. But that's out of selfishness, because he hateshateshates this. I'm kinda torn ...

Well, since I am, again awake prior to dawn and I have a cat staring at me over the computer screen, I'm going to go and start my day. Maybe vacuum to anger the bitch downstairs. Who knows. The world is my oyster. 

And tonight? Yeah, I'm probably going to again sleep like the dead. 

* In efforts to avoid disturbing me when he's restless, he has this habit of taking one of our blankets and either going to the floor or to the closet.