The number of years I was a single parent outnumber the years I was married.
I’m not braggin’ or complainin’ — I’m ‘splaining.
I became quite adept at “manning up,” except for the times I was paranoid and psychotic, which was often.
Those times were usually preempted by a marathon TV viewing of true crime shows.
After watching six hours of serial killers and sociopaths methodically torture , murder and dump dead bodies — always in a sleepy little Midwestern town exactly like the one I lived in — I would lie in bed, wide-eyed and listening to what sounded like some random psychopath jimmying the deadlock bolt on my back door.
The interlobular, fraidy-cat nerve stimuli of my brain would multiply like rabbits — evil rabbits who pushed me into a black hole and caused me to dance with the (Stephen) King of Hearts.
Brain waves collided, noises amplified, shadows lurked, insomnia intensified, sanity imploded.
I wonder if the back door is locked? I need to double check – again.
1:38 a.m. I have got to go to sleep.
I never got that rebate check for the printer I bought last year. I know I sent that form in.
I wonder if the front door is double-bolted. I’ll check.
I need to cook that chicken before it goes bad.
Should I buy a gun?
Nah, I’d probably grab it instead of the alarm clock and blow my head off like that idiot who made all the headlines last year.
2:16 a.m. I’ve got to go to sleep.
Damn. What’s that silhouette on the window?
It looks just like that vampire kid who floated up to the third floor of a mansion in that Stephen King movie. Oooh, creepy; don’t think about it …
Is it wrong to pay one credit card with another?
No good. That vampire kid is outside my window, tapping on the glass and beckoning me with bloody fangs the size of barbecue tongs. Jeesh, think of something else …
What’s the difference between epoxy and glue, anyway?
Oh, I’d love to be an Oscar Mayer Wiener …
Damn. What was that?
Some Scott Peterson-type just slithered through the kitchen and is on the staircase landing outside my door, waiting to slit my throat from ear to ear and throw my lifeless body in the bay.
Damn. It’s just the cat.
We don’t have a bay.
I’m going to stop cussing, starting tomorrow.
Damn. It is tomorrow.
Do acronyms count as cussing?
The central, most powerful and all-encompassing dictator, indicator and ruler of government is the sewer system infrastructure.
OMG. The shadow on the wall is moving.
That cheesy, bacony, dippy thing Peggy made yesterday was really good. Wonder if she used mild or sharp cheddar?
That is what I’d really like to be …
Maybe I should go grab a butcher knife, just in case?
Maybe a strand of garlic?
3:33 a.m. – OK, seriously, I have GOT to Go. To. Sleep. Now.
Maybe I should get the kids up and go over our Family Emergency Evacuation Plan?
Cause if I was an Oscar Mayer Wiener …
I have way too many windows in this house. I should board up a few.
4:22 a.m. – Damn. Maybe I should just get up?
That life-size walking doll I had when I was 9 had really scary eyes. Like the vampire kid outside my window, wait, don’t think about it …
The eyes followed me and each time I entered my room, that damn toy was sitting in a different spot.
I need a new black purse.
Everyone would be in love with me …
5:23 a.m. Damn. Just get up.
― David Benioff, City of Thieves
2 thoughts on “Cold Case Insomnia Causes Consistent Cussing”
I hate those kind of night, and it was mild cheddar. The older I get the more I have them, you forgot to add how many times you got up to pee.
Ha! I knew it was cheddar – ummm…