Full-body rebellion.

To say that my body is "unamused" with my recent lifestyle would be about as absurd as saying that, when asked about his stance on world peace, Ghandi rolled his eyes and passed a spliff.

Last night, por ejemplo, bedtime was at 4:15 a.m. I had attempted and earlier repose, but due to the months of only 4 hours of sleep a night, my body balked at such a pedantic effort (I yoose Big Gurl werds 'cause I'm in gradumate skool).

So an hour later, when kitty-foo decided to practice her deep-tissue massage (read: flogging) on my shoulder blades, I knew that Fate was a back-stabbing bitch that would dangle the possibility of sleep above me like dripping, ripe fruit. Or a diamond chandelier. Or those damn baby mobiles they put in cribs to amuse babies. Oh, I remember mine. Stupid animals kept smiling down at me. All I wanted to do was pet them, but they were miles away from my piggy little fingers. Objects closer than they appear, indeed.

Anyway, so 5 a.m. comes and kitty gets exiled to the floor (mind you, she's been sleeping on my favorite sweatshirt - on the floor - for a week and a half now, so she was perfectly happy with her banishment).
Awesome. Time to rock Sleep again. Except now Sleep is tainted with bizarro dreams involving toile curtains, mice and those sprinkles made for cakes and ice cream.

6 a.m., cold sweat. I wake up panicked as I try to claw my way out of the noose I have somehow fabricated, in my sleep, out of my comforter. And its all because, in the netherworld of Leslie Dreams, those stupid mice grew sprinkles in place of horns (don't your mice have horns?) and the toile-scenery peasants were trying to poach them for their... well, sprinkles. True dream story.

For the next hour I watch the sun rise over the greyhound bus parked in the church parking lot across the street from my window. Finally, pissed, I get up, shower, and eat a half a banana slathered in Jif (which made the kitty-torture-methods and freakish toile dreams ALMOST acceptable).

And here I am, having endured an entire day of non-productivity, now putting up a half-assed fight against that pompous bastard Sleep (who I swear just scoffed at my Tylenol PM as being merely "a flesh wound.")

Kitty McShreddington better choose her battles wisely tonight.