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:

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After the mind-bogglingly boring sex scandals that saw Ronan Keating bonk a dancer, Vernon Kay texting someone telling her he had the horn and Ashley ‘I’m less interesting than a potato’ Cole posing for the world to see in what looked suspiciously like Primark pants, I’m bored.

If there’s no exposé on a BNP councillor paying a black, pre-op transsexual to defecate on his chest or pictures showing me that Ant and Dec are in fact a couple, I don’t much care. When the leading respected publications The Sun and The Daily mail reported on sporadically funnyman Jason Manford sending sexy tweets (twexts? Sweets? Seexts?) to a chubby funster called Something McSomething, I can’t say I was blown away. Average looking man chances it and requests to see average looking woman’s breasts? In my world, that’s called ‘every minute of the day in London.’ Seriously. I’ve lived here for a few months and I’ve been curb crawled several times (OK, twice). I dress more like a 1920s housewife than a street-walker and haven’t seen a red light in my area; it must be the junk in my trunk. I digress.

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How Celebrities Keep Me Up At Night.

I’ve not been sleeping well.

I didn’t want to alarm my nearest and dearest but since May 2009, I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep. I toss and turn; I sweat profusely; I call out for my mother and I have nightmares that frighten me to my very core.

I tried altering my diet and mixing up my exercise regime; alas, these did not do a thing. I drank copious amounts of whiskey to knock me out, followed by swallowing fifteen sleeping pills; alas, this just gave me a hangover and a stomach ache.

I often sat down perplexed, looking wistfully into the distance wondering what the issue was, as having these troubles continue for longer than a year certainly indicated towards a concern I had buried deep down into my subconscious.

Then – eureka! – like a teenager discovering masturbation for the very first time, I felt the giddy excitement of a problem being solved. I didn’t have family, relationship or financial woes but there was an answer to one question I needed answering and my body wouldn’t let me sleep until I got it.

Why did Peter Andre divorce Katie Price?!?!

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Won’t Somebody Think (Irrationally) of the Children?

If there’s one thing I hate about child molesters – apart from their molesting of children – it’s just how gosh darn overt they are with ogling and molesting and paedophiling. I’m looking at you, NAMBLA. Closer to home? Ex-national treasure Gareth Glitter even penned a recruitment song in an attempt to appeal to lovers of glam-rock up and down the country.

“When will the madness end?” Parents, teachers, social workers and undercover paedophiles are crying. No time soon if Fox ‘Largely-Mistaken, Scaremongering’ 23 News has anything to do with it. Do you find the popular internet meme PedoBear to be funny?

Then you, sicko, ARE A PAEDOPHILE.

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