An Out-of-Order Insomniac

Sometimes sleep is a myth

40 Minutes after Midnight

Their name escapes me but I still remember her words -Sometimes we think we’re the only humans that have screwed up the planet but really we’re just screwing it up on the most spectacular level. And when adults ask if I’m being good they’re implicitly checking to see if I’m conforming to societal roles. And if it got repeated in a textbook three times then it must be true. And anything new isn’t new.

41 Minutes after Midnight

Nobody really knows if Cillian is an alien. He’s spent most of his life searching for a thesis that may not exist. The humans who listen to his stories at wine mixers tend to become alcoholics. So there I was inside that beer-soaked membrane trying to use the umbilical cord to hang myself. If I can interject one observation here, it’s that placenta doesn’t need seasoning. Of course, I wouldn’t believe it either had I not been there and tried it. Someone once compared the taste with doctor’s saying happiness is difficult with a defective vehicle. When Cillian made a habit of streaking in the park, he wasn’t thinking about tax write-offs.

42 Minutes after Midnight

Spiritual missiles explode within walking distance of Bergstrom’s concept shop. A couple in the perceived middle of an argument exist even closer to the explosions. Tell me you love me, she says to the gentleman dressed as a mime. His silence detonates the land mines inside her mind and she smiles as if pretending to be in Hawaii. Bergstrom decides to wait.

43 Minutes after Midnight

Hmm. It’s like seeing a butterfly pinned down under a piece of glass and being told it’s a live insect. Ehh. It’s like seeing Kobe Bryant at the Savemart Center for 37 seconds. Ahh. It’s like a university-style education facility for retired humans to spend their time learning. Mmm. It’s like raising questions of who should rule us. Ehh. It’s like oil companies borrowing from Egyptian tomb paintings. Hmm. It’s like someone’s history overshadowing their present. To tell you the truth, I’ve always had difficulty describing colors to the blind.

44 Minutes after Midnight

Pepperoni, ham, mushrooms, green peppers, white onions, and bacon. Canadian bacon and pineapple. Pepperoni. Pepperoni. Pepperoni, mushrooms, olives, white onions, and sausage. Breadsticks with cheese. Pepperoni, olives, and sausage. Canadian bacon, salami, pepperoni, ham, sausage, and bacon. Olives. Pepperoni and pineapple. Pepperoni, ham, mushrooms, green peppers, white onions, and bacon with light sauce. Breadsticks. Pepperoni and olives. Did you clock out already? Yes, about four hours ago.

45 Minutes after Midnight

“Well if it isn’t four-eyes Wagner, ha.”

- It doesn’t work if I’m not wearing glasses, dude.

46 Minutes after Midnight

‘I can assure you the procedure will be virtually painless, Ms. Reid. It’ll take no more than ten minutes to insert the tapeworm into your stomach, Ms. Reid. What makes our practice so unique is how we also stick a smaller tapeworm into the stomach of your first tapeworm, Ms. Reid. I suspect losing those thirty pounds will almost be too easy for you, Ms. Reid.’

47 Minutes after Midnight

What if I’m not progressing? What if I’m just stuck in a rut? What if things don’t work out? What if I really do die of a heart attack at age 28? What if I’m wrong? What if nothing matters? What if our concentration goes sideways when we’re depressed? What if I talk and start to unravel? What if people change who they are? What if I’m a contaminating influence? What if humans are aware of my errors? What if I’m not? What if words have planned obsolescence? What if I never fall asleep? What if I'm doing myself a huge disservice with all this negative thinking?

Ad Infinitum after Midnight

Horses and guns sneak out in the night as the world’s greatest speller watches from behind an uncontrolled excavation. Southwest pottery made by a bipolar God stomps and snarls when a bird with OCD calls it CDO. Discourse drips off the trees. A chase ensues between economic, political, and social problems and ends somewhere in a debtor’s prison. Vegetable designs that didn’t make the cut stand backwards like a pathological gambler on a French sugar island. Says he understands freedom ‘cause he lives in a society where not everyone has it. Fire ants rise from the sea asking what the purpose of art will be in the future. The perfect life doesn’t exist. What are you going to do now?