Me to My Dreams: You're Fired

Two nights ago I dreamed about Arnold Schwarzenegger. He was being mean to Adam West.

How could anyone be mean to Adam West?

Last night I dreamed about Donald Trump competing in a dance-off/golf tournament in the basement of a comic book store. He got three holes in one. I don't think his dancing was very good, though.

Tonight, I'm tired. Apparently my subconscious doesn't find it restful to repeatedly dream about rich white guys who used to star on "The Apprentice."

Aww, they used to be friends.

Go figure.

My point is, I have all these great ideas for posts I want to write. But I'm too bloody exhausted to write them. Also, they mostly involve taking photos of random stuff lying around my place, and just the thought of framing, shooting, editing, and posting photos is wearing me out.

So I'm going to go to bed early tonight. With the aid of a Benadryl, perhaps I'll sleep soundly and well and untroubled by the wacky narratives my brain loves to come up with just to fuck with me.

Then I can get back to writing about the important stuff. Like how I bought three pounds of old buttons on eBay. Or my ongoing war against drain flies. Or my thoughts on monkey clones.

I just want to get back to normal, is what I'm trying to say.

So good night, my Drunkards. May our dreams shut the hell up and let us sleep for once.

Wanted: A Word for This Feeling

It's late where I am. It's the end of a long day.

Way too keyed up to sleep, though.

You know how we have the totally-a-legit-word "hangry" to describe hunger-induced anger? I think we need a word to describe when you're simultaneously exhausted but hyper-awake from working like a mofo at something.

Like..."exhited." Or "hypooped." Or "sleePINGPINGPING!!!"

I'll work on it.

Tomorrow I'll work on it. Right now I'm freaking tired. Yet wide awake. I'm "twiwake."

Yeah, not there yet.

I'm going to troll some people on Twitter, maybe, and then go to bed.

Love you guys.

Good night.

Totally Tired

Oh my gosh, you guys. I am monumentally tired. Epically tired. Historically tired.

Totally tired.




RIP, Merritt Butrick.

But yeah, I'm freaking tired.

I feel as if I spent the entire day in the car. To the storage unit. Load the car. To the apartment. Unload the car. Drive Precocious Daughter to her social engagements. Drive to the house to check on the dog.

Did I mention that my house went under contract last weekend, but the buyers backed out because people who believe a 40-year-old house should produce a completely clean inspection report shouldn't be allowed to breed, let alone purchase real estate, so now my house is back on the market and I have to find ways to not be there while it's being shown, which is a total pain in the ass?

Guys, I'm just tired. I want to sell my damn house. I want to finalize my damn divorce. I want to pay off my damn debts.

None of this is going to happen tonight, so maybe I should just concentrate on getting a good night's sleep.

Good night, Drunkards.

Don't let the bedbugs bite.

Or it might end up on the next home inspection report, for fuck's sake.