Location: Chicago, Illinois, United States

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

I have trouble

I have trouble falling asleep, and I have trouble waking up. I don't like the change from conscious to unconscious and vice-versa. I don't like it because it's different. My waking life consists of going to work and afterwards drinking just less than a hangover's critical volume. My dreaming life consists of wandering through physically impossible landscapes, sometimes pursued by fat bearded murderers, sometimes by ladies in sports bras and cargo pants (sometimes these are the same).

What I need is a reward for falling asleep and a reward for waking up. On a side note, not waking up could be construed as such a disincentive that waking up is its own reward (but that gets into metaphysics, and I don't have time for that). So what kind of rewards are there? I am going to put them in descending order and then defend that order for our collective amusement.

Orgasm, flying, food, booze, escape from death, caffeine, omnipotence, omniscience, hot water just beneath the pain threshold.

Orgasm, or fertilizing an ovum or a belly-button, comes first. Pleasurewise, there's nothing better, and the mess isn't really a mess if you think about it. It's a tangible result. Regularly, I tangibly result all over my pillowcase.

Flying ranks lower than orgasm because orgasm sends millions of half human beings flying, whipping, triumphant over their hostile environment: When enemies attack them, they split up; when one gets injured, they go on; when one dies, he doesn't get the egg. They do not know that their cohesive, jellylike glider is subject to gravity. Oh, the exhilaration in these sperm upon hearing the throbbing school bell signal summer vacation. Oh, they fly for one brief moment, what more could they ever want?

Flying is superior to food. When I say flying, I mean when a human flies like Nelly Furtado, not when a human sits in an airplane, cursing the recirculated virus-laden air that will cruelly sicken him on vacation. True flying only happens to me in dreams and in elevators in free fall, but the wind in my hair, man, that's great. Food happens to me every flu-free day, so it's less rare.

Food releases endorphins. Booze also releases endorphins but then takes them back the next day. Sometimes booze takes back more than endorphins, bidding ridiculous amounts in sickness's silent auction for things like stomach lining and self-esteem. Where does booze get the capital to invest in such things? Booze never buys anything directly, just puts it on lay-away.

But, you say, if you drink enough booze, doesn't feel like you're flying (no. 2 on the list)? No, I say, it feels like you're spinning, which is close, but compare the Batman ride at Six Flags with the Cajun Cliffhanger.

It is obvious that booze is a better reward than escape from death because there's less to think about after drinking booze. When taken in enough quantities, booze can actually result in escape from death, or death itself. Booze is just higher on the food chain. Although escape from death can be cheaper than booze, on any Saturday night I'll gladly fork over seven dollars for a finger of bourbon whiskey rather than play Frogger on the expressway. Places that serve booze often feature hot looking women, whereas places that serve escape from death often feature antisocial boot-clad juveniles.

Sleep is practice for death. Caffeine cures sleepiness. Therefore, caffeine is a diluted form of escape from death. Simple, no?

(to be continued)



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