I'll sleep when I'm Dead...

I'll sleep when I'm dead... my credo... my motto... my downfall

Thursday, May 26, 2011

It's Just Us...

This post comes courtesy of a wonderful writer and perversely fucked up friend of GetOffended, @2ndcitysaint and her blog, The Blog of Shame. Here is the story in it's entirety.

Last year, for my birthday, we decided to go to the strip club!

Surprisingly, prior to this, I had never been to a strip club. I was pretty excited to go! So, my best friend and I and a couple of people from work, end up at the club, and we’re all hanging out by the bar… because, y’know, only the perverts go and sit down by the stage.

It’s my birthday so everyone’s buying me drinks/shots and I get drunk enough that by the time they are announcing “last call for stage tips,” my best friend is able to convince me to go do one. Now, for those of you who don’t know what a stage tip is… it’s when you go up on stage and roll up a $5 (usually) bill in your mouth and the stripper takes it from you, in some way. Usually she’ll grind on your junk or your face, and she’ll take the money with either her mouth, her tits, or in some special cases, her pussy. If you’re a particularly lucky dude, the DJ might order you over the mic to take off your belt, at which time the stripper will then pull your pants down and spank you with it. We saw that happen to one dude, who was celebrating his 19th birthday. I didn’t have to deal with that, thank goodness.

So, I take the $5, and head up to the stage, and lay down with it in my mouth. A couple of other people are on stage, so I have to wait my turn. Some of the people I was with from work came down right next to the stage and started yelling “it’s her birthday!” when it came to be my turn. One girl even tried to take a picture! At which point the bouncer snatched her phone and started to cuss her out. Apparently, it wasn’t quite obvious to her that you don’t bust out phones in a club with strippers!

So, it’s finally my turn, the stripper, Jade, wants me to show her my tits. NOW… despite me flaunting them all over Twitter, I’m actually pretty shy in person, and the fact that I was on a stage in front of like, 100 men kinda freaked me out. So, she starts to pull up my shirt, and I push it down all “no, no, no.” So, she leans in, starts nibbling on my ear and whispers, “it’s just us.” I was putty in her hands after that. I totally fell for the line. So, she proceeds to stick her head under my shirt, and lifts up my bra. As far as I know, she was the only one who saw anything, thank goodness. She nods in approval and then starts doing her dance on me. I don’t even remember how she took my money. It definitely wasn’t with her vag, and I assume I’d remember if she did it with her tits, so I can only imagine that she took it with her mouth, and I was just too dumbfounded by the ear-nibble-line-combo to notice.

Also, there was a sort of “special feature” stripper there who was doing a show every night that week when we went. She’s some pro-stripper or something, so she was selling posters. My best friend bought me one as a birthday present. It’s autographed, and says “Breast Wishes.” I put it on my “wall of shame” which is my sleazy bathroom door.

Don't miss @2ndCitySaint's weekly podcast, The Podcast of Shame either. We love this girl.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

I'll Sleep When I'm Dead

Insomnia. Chronic Insomnia. I'm not going to lie, sometimes it's a lifesaver. I work so much and am involved in so many different things that the lack of sleep, or requirement there of, makes getting everything done doable. Other times, it's horrific.

I hear "I have insomnia" tossed around a lot nowadays. Let's get the facts straight first. There are 3 different kinds of insomnia. 1) Transient, 2) Acute, 3) Chronic.

Transient is short term. Usually caused by a change in your life or stress. Have a big decision to make or change jobs? Hard time getting to sleep for a week? That's Transient Insomnia (T.I.).

Acute is Transient taken to the next level. If the insomnia persists (usually because the stresser persists) then T.I. can turn to A.I.

Chronic is the mother of all Insomnia. When A.I. starts lasting for months, and you start re-evaluating what caused it in the first place, your A.I. has turned to C.I.

I have Apeirophobia. It's the fear of infinity. It sounds stupid, but to me it's anything but. The concept of infinite nothingness has kept me up, deep in thought, for 25 years. One fateful night, when I was 9 years old, the James Bond movie, "You Only Live Twice" triggered it. I know, I know… James Bond? There was one scene in particular that caused an entire summer of diagnosed A.I. The simple scene was of a black spaceship "swallowing" another craft. During this maneuver, there was an astronaut in the middle of a space-walk. When the ship "swallows" the other ship, the astronaut is cut free and floats away to his death. The implications of this caused a series of unanswered questions about our existence and the concept of infinite space. After 3 months of laying on the couch, watching European Soccer on ESPN throughout the night (this was long before the MLS or even professional soccer in the US), I was diagnosed with Acute Insomnia. It subsided, but the fears did not. What started out as a phase because a norm. My body's sleep requirements dropped to 3-4 hours per day. I was a high functioning insomniac throughout the rest of my childhood.

Once I went to college, the 3-4 hours per night became 8-10 hours per week. I would stay up for 40 - 60 hours at a time without question. I would power nap as required, mostly to keep from hurting myself behind the wheel or in the shop using power tools. Over 10 years, my body had begun to feel rested on just a few hours of sleep.

That's when the health problems started to kick in. First it was recurrent Walking Pneumonia, then it was the ulcers, then it was the bi-weekly flu. Being in college, I didn't have proper health care and insurance so I was forced to see campus clinics. Everything was treated as a one-shot deal and the issues persisted. It wasn't until my senior year that my ulcers got out of hand, and it came to screeching halt. It was then that my sleeping habits were brought into light when I went home to see my childhood Pediatrician.

Fast forward 10 years. The sleep hasn't changed. I refuse any and all forms of narcotics or drugs stronger than Advil so sleep aids are not even an option. I drink caffeine but not in excess. I exercise, run and take extremely good care of my body. I just don't sleep like a normal person. My average night consists of 2 hours of sleep. 3 hours if I'm lucky. Usually 1 or 2 nights a week, I forego sleeping all together. Sometimes it's a choice, sometimes it's not.

Biggest problem with this is the type of sleep I'm getting is a deep stage 4 sleep, without dreams, without enough physical recovery. I supplement with Protein, Vitamin C and Nitrogen Monoxide but sometimes it isn't enough.

What this means is eventually my body takes over when the mind is unable to do its job. This first comes by way of active functioning sleep dreaming. Insomniacs can go on about their activities in a state of stupor, then have no recollection of the events that have occurred. Have you ever driven a very long distance, reached your destination, then can't remember doing the drive? You kind of zone out? It's sort of like that. I can look at a clock and all of a sudden not remember any conversation or action I've performed for the last 30 minutes. Sometimes even the last few hours. Often times it involves monotonous activity or conversations with friends. People who know me, find it entertaining. People who don't, find it annoying as fuck.

When this stage occurs, I know it's my bodies way of sounding the warning siren. Sleep is coming whether I like it or not. Actually, "passing out" is a better description of what is about to occur. I've been known to sleep upward of 24 hours during this stage of recovery. It usually depends on my responsibilities and obligations. After the recovery sleep, the body continues with an all out evacuation of toxins. Usually in the form of a mild flu. Basically I feel like shit for the whole next day and throw up as soon as I get to my feet.

Is there a solution? I've been told that because of the nature of my fear and the near impossible task of meeting it head on (how do you "face the fear" of infinity?) the best course of action is to change my lifestyle, change jobs to a less stressful one and medicate heavily. I refuse medication, I love my job(s) and the lack of sleep lets me take advantage of a 22 hour day and actually accomplish things I wouldn't be able to otherwise. I am a smart guy, I know it's not the smartest course of action. It's going to lead to an early grave. BUT, the way I look at it, I'll have experienced more lucid time in my life by the time I'm 50 than most will if they live to be 80. Now I just need to make it to 50.

With that said, hold your personal opinions. I could give a flying fuck what any of you have to say in regards to your personal diagnosis and tips for falling asleep. I don't mean to sound like a dick, but after spending 25 years with something, it becomes your own personal friend, passenger and nightmare. It's my precious and I'm not sharing.

If you are one of the unlucky few who get to witness me when the warning sirens are sounding, I'm apologizing in advance. It's annoying and not pretty at all. Especially if I get belligerent when you try to get me to lay down. (Ever try to take the car keys away from a drunk? Yeah, it's like that).

No worries folks. I'll sleep when I'm dead.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Tigger and the Comforter

The year was 1996. I was living in a 2 bedroom apartment in Cincinnati with my wife when she was still my girlfriend. We lived in a good area but the laundry facilities were shit, so i saved every penny I had and bought a portable washer and dryer. You actually wheeled it into the kitchen and hooked it up to the sink. It worked great but only did very small loads. We also had a miniature pinscher named Tigger. She was our baby, both in age and in love for the only "child" of the house, sense of the word. I was in college and working full time as a Designer. She worked 2nd shift and went to school full time as well. We never saw each other (much like now) so all of our interactions involved us passing through an open apartment door.

Because we were so broke, buying a birthday present for her was quite difficult especially after dropping everything on the puppy and the washer and dryer. It was decided that we needed a new comforter for the water bed (yes, I said water bed… don't judge me) so I dropped our last $75 on a new King Size Comforter. Fast forward a couple of weeks. Still broke. New puppy, new washer & dryer, new comforter, no money. It was college at it's finest.

She was working a double that day so I slept in. About 11am, I rolled my lazy ass out of bed. Tigger was hiding under the covers per her usual routine. I decided she needed to play so I got a firm grip on the comforter and in one foul swoop, ripped it off the bed like a magician removing the cloth from a loaded table. Problem is, not only did the comforter come flying off the bed, but a barrage of shit did as well. Spraying the wall behind me like blood splatter at a crime scene. Worst part was, I was also in the direction of the flying excrement. It was a few seconds before the gravity of the situation kicked in and I realized what had happened. Then and only then did I realize that the warm feeling on my face and in my mouth was also part of the same cavalcade of crap.

I immediately ran to the bathroom to vomit. This normal reaction was followed by the distinctive sound of my dog shitting all over the wall. Again. It was then that I came to the conclusion that today was going to suck ass.

The next 6 hours involved cleaning up shit, cleaning up more shit and cleaning up the shit I missed the first 2 times.

With all the shit cleaned off the walls, the floor, me, the bed and inside Tigger's cage, it was time to start laundry. First my clothes, then the sheets. All going well. Now the new comforter. Realizing that it's too large for the apartment size washing machine, I walk to the laundry facilities. EVERY single washer full and a line of quarters at each. Back to the apartment I go, with the shit covered comforter uncomfortably in my arms.

Even though I've cleaned the comforter in the sink to the best of my ability, the smell is starting to get out of control. I make an executive decision and shove the comforter into the apartment sized washer and hope for the best.

Three hours later. I've washed the comforter 4 times and somehow it's actually worse than when I put it in the first time. What used to be a huge shit stain is now a $75 comforter covered in hardened dingleberry dog turds. As I pull the comforter out, my girlfriend walks in from the worst day of work at the nursing home she's ever had.

"I've had the worst day of work at the nursing home I've ever had" she says (see, I told you) as she comes into the kitchen seeing me struggling with the comforter.

"No, I've had the worst fucking day ever" I retort. Apparently a little more aggravated than I had intended.

"Mrs Jenkins decided to shit herself, roll it into little balls, line it up on her bed rail and flip them at us every time we came into the room. Fuck you and your worst day ever" she says obviously unimpressed.

"I ate Tigger's diarrhea. Now help me with this comforter." She just stood there. Apparently I won.

After trying to wash the comforter a 5th time unsuccessfully, at the laundromat, I decided to cut our losses and dry it, baking the dingleberries into the comforter. Realization of the loss of the comforter and our current state of being broke beyond belief brought my girl to tears. Anyone who knows me knows that I can't stand people around me upset. The wheels started turning, I developed a plan.

First, I called around to see if our Wal-Mart had another one of our exact comforter. They did not, which actually worked out. Modifying the plan, I drove to the next town, about an hour round trip, and bought another comforter on a credit card. I brought it back to the car, pulled the comforter out and put our shit stained one into the bag. I should point out that it's about 2:00am at this point, in Cincinnati. The vampires are the only ones at Wal-Mart at this point.

Next, I drove back to my Wal-Mart and proceeded to walk in and bee-line it to the customer service desk. "I need to see a manager immediately." I said in the most pissed at the world tone I could muster.

I spent the next 15 minutes explaining to the manager that I just bought this comforter at the Wal-Mart up the road and showed them that it appears someone used the comforter, stained it and tried to return it. Here, I just bought it and almost put it onto our bed. I wanted a replacement immediately. Since I already knew they did not have a replacement, I opted for credit back on my credit card or cash. To get me out of the store, because I was apparently making a scene, they opted for the faster, cash option.

Moral of the story, when in doubt, Wal-Mart will let you return anything, even a dog shit covered comforter,.