An Infant Stole It From Me, I'm Stealing It Back

I'm going to catch up on some sleep this weekend, but right now I'm special tired. I'm so tired it almost feels like being drunk. My tired eyes misread an internet news fact and for a minute there I was pretty sure that a new leopard species had been found in Bono.

"Wow," I thought. "Is there anything that mad bastard cannot do?" The guy already fronts U2, is single handedly saving the world, had the balls to release an awful version of "Helter Skelter" in a major motion picture, and is apparently harboring a brand new species of large, predatory cat inside of him. I have apparently been a little hard on the guy.

But no, the new leopard was found in Borneo; Bono's still a douche.

Bif took the little man away for a little while, and while I'm sorry that the horrors of the OC are being pushed on him at such an early age, I'm glad that that side of the family is getting a chance to see him. I have to say that for such a little guy, he leaves a big old hole in the place when he's not around.

You would think that with Riley being gone, I would be getting more sleep. Wouldn't you? Well wouldn't you?!? Why does no one ever answer my questions? I am hoping that is the case this weekend.

There's a problem that I have when I'm in a play, or doing rehearsals for one as I am now. Getting onto the stage and playing around fills me with an energy that typically takes 8 kinds of pharmaceuticals, a coffee bean omelet and a heavy electric shock to my anus to procure. I can be dragging throughout the day, but once I hit the theater I'm ready to invade Idaho. This energy tends to stick around for awhile after rehearsals and it often becomes difficult to drop off to sleep.

So taking last night as an example, there's a lot of me wandering the apartment and talking to myself, or to the cats, or to the shambling freaks I spy walking the sidewalks outside my apartment. I don't expect any answers, typically filling in their side of the conversation with an enjoyably comic voice anyway. After awhile, I will eventually look at a clock and say to my imaginary counterpart, "man, I gotta hit the sack." After hitting said sack I will lay wide eyed and tossing until I eventually slow my brain down enough to drop off, or I rub one out. I will then come to work the following morning punchy, delusional, and somewhat abusive on the phone to the poor bastards who push me.

But this weekend, I'm making sleep my bitch. I'm going to eat sleep like it was a pizza, drink it like a pitcher of beer. I'm going to run my fingers through sleeps silky hair and then punch it repeatedly in the face.