Revenge of the All-Nighter

The Universe left me to find out a few things about life utterly on my own. For instance (stop me if you’ve heard this before), the “s” word is not “stupid.” And the “f” word is not “fart.” And the “b” word is not “butt.” And speaking of the “b” word, the phrase “That bitch has an ass-face” has much less to do with animals than I once knew.

But this post isn’t actually about the deflowering of my virgin ears. This post is about how the Universe neglected to tell me that I would PAY, years later, for those all-nighters I pulled in college. I rarely needed sleep back then. Once I fought through the brain-pummeling exhaustion to the pleasant zombie buzz, I was great. Mobile, even (though balance sometimes presented a problem). Staying up was easier for me than waking up, and I was at least 15% functional on no sleep; what more could an over-booked over-extended over-achiever want?

Flash forward to this morning. After a respectable eight-hour sleep*, I pried my rusty eyelids open, as ready as I ever am for a big day of grocery shopping with the girls, ~GROCERY SHOPPING WITH THE GIRLS~, and returning home with few casualties. Did I mention grocery shopping with the girls? Unfortunately, before my feet even hit the floor, I fell over dead courtesy of karmic retribution from College All-Nighter #54.

All I’ve been able to think about today is how the sky looks like soot-trampled gum and how snails have far too much energy and how my bed is just right over there and how that’s convenient with me being literally dead and all. Contestants on American Gladiator who have just finished the Obstacle Course of Near Demise and Certain Life-Sucking Extreme-to-the-Max Fatigue? Are barely one-fifth as tired as I am today. There is, of course, no explanation for this other than the folly of my sleepless youth catching up to me.

Darn** Universe.

*Yes, I have a newborn. No, you can’t have her.

**(Not the “d” word. Just thought you should know.)