Ahh, the sounds of 1am. 

And 2am.

And 3am.

Yep, nothing but that toilet that runs every so often.

These nights suck. Not always while they’re happening. I mean they do when I’m working and I count the hours until my alarm is going to go off, but during the summer they don’t suck as much. They will, of course, as the sun finally rises and I finally feel tired enough to sleep.

Sometimes it’s my brain that keeps whirring, and sometimes I have no idea why I can’t sleep. Last night wasn’t completely my fault though because this was happening at 3:30:

This was after a bout of ear scratching and subsequent panting. And then she rolled onto my shoulder, but it was kind of ok because I have these knots that never get worked out and I’m pretty sure my scapula was separated from my body and the stretch felt hurtful, but in a good way.

So I kind of gave up and turned on HGTV to watch a couple that looked like they had just rolled out of bed and spoke like they both dropped out in 6th grade– “Like, I dunno, babe. Which one do you like?”– who apparently have 4 million dollars to spend on a private island off the coast of Florida. And I’m not trying to judge, but I’m kinda cranky with no sleep and really? 4 million dollars? On a vacation home/ island? And then I got pissed off at them because they picked one that didn’t have a causeway so you had to take a 10 minute boat ride to get there and, I mean, who DOES THAT? Like how did they get all their precious knick knacks out there (which I assume consist of gold lions or some other ostentatious shit).

So then I started thinking more about how stupid it was. Like where does it go when you flush? I pictured this giant septic tank under the sand, and then I started rooting against these people hoping a tropical storm– not hurricane because I’m not a total bitch– would erode the sand and break the tank and the island would be covered in rich people shit and shreds of gold leaf toilet paper which I’m sure they use to wipe their asses. Or maybe the butler does that for them.

But then there was an episode of a gal from Chicago who was defying cultural norms and moving to Guam to see the world and be a pharmacist (two things that seem anomalous in my sleep-deprived head, but whatever. Pharmacists just don’t generally seem to be the exploring adventurous type, but maybe it’s because I’m not part of the pharmacist inner circle.)

Anyway, she went with her sister to pick out a house and honestly, after seeing the views, I wanted to move to Guam. And then I got a little weepy because she was part of an Indian family where you really don’t leave home until you’re married, but she wanted to be independent and live her life and that made me think of Sandra Cisneros’s “The Storyteller” where she described the EXACT SAME THING and I was all like, You go girl! And crying for this unknown woman to make it as a pharmacist in paradise and fulfill her dreams.

And I hugged Ginger and scratched Fiona behind the ears (since she determined that my stomach was now the place to curl up and take a nice cat bath) and I realized that I was never, ever going to get any sleep tonight, and that since it was now 5am I could just pretend that I was just getting up and try and trick myself that I actually slept.

But I wrote this, and that’s (kind of?) productive and now Ginger is acting like I kept her up all night because she begrudgingly followed me downstairs and now looks like this:

Poor baby.

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