I Can’t Sleep.

I wrote this earlier and found it in my little drafts area thing. Here you go.

It’s 06:30 and I am awake. I have not slept tonight because my body hates me deeply and wants me to feel wretched. I seem to suffer with pretty chronic insomnia and every route I’ve gone down to make it better so far hasn’t worked. C’est la vie.

Tonight is a little different. I’m a vegan and for some reason that I can’t quite understand right now, I ate a little bit of meat yesterday evening. So instead of The Human Centipede or being overdramatic about emotional issues keeping me awake, it was actually alternating between the thoughts of “I think there’s a goblin in my stomach eating his way out into the open” and “Oh no, I’m really not going to make it to the bathroom am I?” that have preventing me getting sleep. In short, I feel pretty ill.

I could have used these extra hours to do something productive or something that I’ve been putting off but I totally didn’t. In six and a half hours, I have:

+ Watched a documentary about a stripper from Alaska who killed one of her boyfriends,

+ Tried to be a little highbrow by reading about the latest Wikileaks but quickly grew bored and moved on to read every entry on the Hyperbole and a Half blog initially just because the girl who writes it is also called Allie. What started as mild amusement at finally hearing of somebody else called Allie (not Ali, Ally or Alli) quickly turned into a feeling of deep, dark emptiness as I quickly discovered she’s both wildly funnier and prettier than I am,

+ Whimpered softly accompanied by intermittent burps,

+ And peeled a banana before realising that if I eat it, I’d probably die.

If I don’t die, I’m going to counterbalance those four acts of cramp-induced laziness to complete four highly important tasks later today. These will be:

+ Buying an assortment of jumpers and cardigans. I’m due to move to Manchester in the new year but I currently reside in South London. With a parent. With a fairly conservative African parent. I’ve lived here since late in the summer and have since discovered not only do my father and I have literally nothing in common, we don’t particularly like each other very much.

I came here after a few years at university and too many years living in the cesspit that is Southampton, as a chance to live rent-free in the capital for a few months. The only rule (because my father is an chartered accountant thereby making him the most  boring person in the world and a fan of rules and regulations by default) was that I take my piercings out and cover up my tattoo, especially if any of his friends happen to be in the vicinity because, you know, OMG! PIERCINGS! TATTOOS! WHY? SO WESTERN! YOU LOOK LIKE A BOY! YOU LOOK LIKE A BOY THUG!

Alas, I am a rebel. I leave my piercings in unless I want to go and ask for something and because I don’t have any sensible season-appropiate shoes for winter, this is hard to hide…

I recently got another tattoo on my arm…

…(largely because the tattooist rejected my first wish of having something on my finger and then I spent too long looking at the design boards just to slink out without anything) and I’ve so far been successful in hiding it. I’m starting to look like a tramp wearing the same few jumpers though and if he saw it, I’d probably be written out of the will and sent to Bible classes so I need more diversity in my covering it up.

+ I will finally understand fully that toast is not a meal, nor does eating a few slices a day along with a banana and not much else contribute to my intake of 5-a-day fruit and veg. I will also realise that I should eat through the day, even though I’m probably not hungry, because it will get to midnight and I’ll suddenly develop debilitating hunger pangs and wolf through about four slices of toast. I’ll proceed to lift up my top, look at my belly and feel a little sad. My boyfriend will then text me very early in the morning telling me he’s going for a run to which I will look at my belly again and, instead of getting out of bed myself and doing something to raise my heart rate, I’ll just poke my gut guiltily and curse my size before going back to sleep.

+ I will find all the forks.

I have no idea how this happens. I mean, I mainly use knifes in the application of my spread to my toast, but I’m pretty sure that on the rare occasions I have an actual meal, I wash up everything I’ve used afterwards and put it back in its place. It’s like the forks are having a party and I’m not invited; I’m not even allowed to know where it is. I’ve decided to find all of the stray forks today, put them back in the drawer and then put masking tape all over the drawer so they can’t get out. Buying new forks would be too much like conceding defeat. At university, instead of washing up, my housemates and I would just bin everything and buy new stuff again. I’m (probably) not going to go down that route again.

+ I will write a new blog post… Oh! Done!

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