Sleep? What is This Sleep You Speak Of?

Seriously, This is Getting Crazy

No sleep. Like, three to four hours a night. Too fucking much to do, not enough hours in which to do it. I was driving on the 401 the other day and I seriously hallucinated that a truck was floating about eight inches off of the surface of the road, wheels spinning, driving along on thin air. What the fucking FUCK, I thought, somewhere between panic and amazement, that eighteen-wheeler is being operated by Magneto! Then I blinked a few times and realized that it was some weird trick of the mid-morning light and shadow, and that I need to fucking sleep, ASAP.

Another effect of the sleep-deprivation is bitterness. So BITTER, brah. I find myself wanting to hurt others for no reasonable cause, except that I'm tired to the point of experiencing a psychotic break from reality. Will there be sleep in my future? Or will I drive my van right into the fucking sun, borne high on leathery pterodactyl wings?

Here's a little blurb I wrote a while ago, concerning the topic of experiencing a break from reality. It would really, really suck ass if this were to actually happen to me.


It happens instantaneously, from one moment to the next - you are walking along a suburban street one fine summer night, and during the time it takes you to lift one foot from the sidewalk and put it ahead of the other, you suddenly find yourself somewhere ... else. 

Instead of firmly bracing the familiar concrete of the sidewalk, your running shoe crunches into a grit of greyish sand. The shock of the sudden change in your environment hits your body before your brain can even register what your eyes are seeing, and you start shuddering uncontrollably. The sky above you is now a murky, multi-hued haze, and the moon is gone - instead, two different, dim and alien orbs hang overhead. You can see no other stars through the toxic smog of this alien sky. You can't breathe properly. This is a cold, poisonous atmosphere that was never meant for human lungs. Fuck, your eyes are burning, as are your nostrils, mouth, throat and lungs; panicked, you stagger in a big looping circle to nowhere. The footprints left in the alkaline grit behind you are the only ones in sight. You are alone.

The street is gone, the town you live in is gone, and there is now only a sandy grey plain as far as your inflamed eyes can see. You scream, meaninglessly, for help. There is none to be had. As the scream tears like a buzzsaw out of your throat, a mist of blood escapes your mouth, pushed from your chest with a rush of the bitter, freezing air.

The scene is bathed in a sickly orange-yellow light from the moons (suns?) that shine weakly through the overhead murk. The plain is filled with strange cactus-looking things, grey like the sand, huge and spiky. It seems that they are swarming with thousands of  insectile worm-things, some almost four feet long. They chitter and buzz in a deep, low tone that you can feel in your chest. They are horrible to behold, and your sanity teeters wildly.

You cough again, and this time it isn't just a mist that escapes, it's a full gush of precious, crimson life. You're drowning in your own bloody mucous. You stagger backward, the heavy gravity dragging at you like dangling lead weights. You fall. Collapse into the caustic dirt beneath you. Try to crawl, spasm, and finally lay still. In the distance, there are mountains that rise to dizzying heights, and you stare at them as you die.

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