Last week I was bitten by a spider, and the world being what it is, I've waited patiently for either an horrific death or the onset of super powers. Or both. Fortunately, neither fate appears to have manifested. Breathe easy, people: you've been spared the twin indignities of searching for something nice to say at my funeral and/or being rescued from Crimes by your heroic correspondant, clad in a pair of highly revealing tights. This latter failing in my spidery foe's assault has actually left me faintly relieved. Whilst the ability to climb up walls and sense evildoers, or whatever, could be pretty useful, super strength would be wasted on me (I'm already pretty buff), and quite frankly the idea of shooting a viscous column of bodily fluid from my extremities at thugs and ne'er-do-wells sounds unhygienic, not to mention morally dubious.
I was, therefore, going to thank Jah that my arachnid enemy only bestowed upon me a small abscess and a painful itch, all cleared up now (that's right ladies, he's guaranteed pus free)... but then a particularly specious exercise in syllogistics led me to realise that the eight-legged fucker had in fact landed a more subtly pernicious blow: since the time of The Biting, or thereabouts, I have been rendered largely unable to sleep. So to the little list of adjectives that your tiny minds already associate with the name Jon - bon vivant, raconteur, pokemon master, world-class shit - you can now add the epithet 'whinging insomniac'.
Inability to sleep? It ain't no fun, as you may be aware. But if you aren't, and were about to say something along the lines of, "But it must be wonderful to have all that extra time on your hands! Just think of all the things you could do," why not save yourself the verbal drubbing I'm about to mete out and kindly cram it. Insomnia stifles any creativity, rationality, or indeed cognitive function that you might once have laid claim to - stifles it like an over-bearing, domineering parent, passive-agressively overcompensating for the martini-fuelled ruin of their third marriage and failure to land yet another promotion (don't mind me, just working through some issues here). Any ability to write, think, read, create or even form entirely coherent sentences goes straight out the window by about night two (you can consider this post exhibit A), and considering I've never been any great shakes at those skills, you might sense my mounting concern. One more week and I will technically qualify for zombie status, which definitely has its perks (brains), but inevitably means another form to fill in come tax time.
On the average morning, around half three in the anti-meridian, the pile of meat formerly known as Jon may be found shuffling around ring-eyed in an unwashed pair of pants and a dilapidated dressing gown, amusing the tattered scraps of his consciousness by pretending to be a character from a Bukowski novel - an act which tends to fail through lack of booze about the house (drinking milk from the carton and swearing at the cat are about as close as I can get). The only upside to my situation is the intellectual feast provided by late-night television. If you haven't watched the Quizmania program on channel 9 yet, you're robbing your soul of the chance to experience a horror far beyond the dreams of Kurtz and Co. I'm especially comforted by the fact that no matter how lobotomised my current state, I still retain more life in my thought-meats than the lavishly coiffured Aspberger's poster-children hosting this show, which takes your pre-conceived notions of the word 'imbecilic' and laughingly hawks a great gob of phlegm on them from a height. But it's not all mind-numbing hi-jinks in late-night TV land, oh no. The tube in the wee hours can be educational, too. Recently they broadcasted a movie documenting the truth about the soccer match organised by Michael Caine and Sylvester Stallone against the Germans during WWII. Bet you didn't know it was Pele who scored the winning goal against those cheating Nazis, did you? Bet your so-called history books didn't teach you that.
Rants like those contained in the last few 'sentences' are the reason why, in mild desperation, I turn to you, O blogland. Sleeplessness is surely a quality shared by many of you beknighted internet devils, even if it wasn't instilled by way of a spider with a chip on one of it's many shoulders. Before I go all Tyler Durden, is there anyone out there with a viable, or at least distractingly amusing, method of countering sleep-loss? C'mon people: I'm falling apart here!