February 13th, 2008


The One Where The King Of Queens' Jacks Are Aced By Tens Over Nines

Is it a bad sign that my dead dog is haunting me in my dreams the last two nights? Is it also a bad sign that he's taking on alternate forms that inherently symbolize my dead dog?

Like, I've had dreams of my little yorkie before since his demise, but they were always in the context of everyday things. Say for instance that I'm wandering around my house scratching my butt ... and there goes Rocky walking to his food dish. But lately? Let's see, night before last he was the same size and shape, but his fur was completely black and he was being terrorized by some very thuggish Eastern Europeans. I don't want to blame Russia's impending arms buildup COMPLETELY ... but I'm saying that Russians are bullying my dog in the afterlife. Then, last night, my dog was my dog but he was actually in the form of a little fighter fish. For some reason, his bowl capsized and the water was slowly flowing into an adjacent bowl, only he fell out the other way and was completely stiff by the time I could get him back in the water. No amount of Fonz-like hitting could revive my poor dead fishdog and his anonymous fish buddy.

They say that New Yorkers comprise the highest percentage of people in the nation who take pills to help them sleep. Ambien is HUGE over there. Since things are so fast and hectic and there's so much pressure on professionals to perform on a daily basis that they have a tough time waking up in the morning because they're so tired. So, they drink an inordinate amount of coffee during the day which leads to them being completely wired by the time they're ready for bed, thus the Ambien.

Now, I wouldn't say my day is necessarily pressure-packed by any means. Nevertheless, I'm finding it impossible to get to sleep at an hour that's conducive to me waking up at 4am to go running. Last night I tried going to bed at 9pm, couldn't fall asleep until midnight. My alarm was set for 4 but I was in no shape to do anything so I slept for another 90 minutes. You'd think with that kind of pisspoor sleep, I'd be good and tired THIS night, but 9pm came and went with me as alert as I've ever been.

So, one of two things is going on, either living in New York has completely fucked up my body's natural sleep cycle, or something is subconsciously on my mind that leaves me tossing and turning until I finally collapse into a series of really fucked up dreams where my dog dies on a nightly basis.

I'm pretty sure this is how Manson got his start.

I don't drink coffee anymore. All throughout the day, I drink nothing but water until I get home in which case I have AH glass or maybe two of iced tea. My job is nothing I haven't done before, so there's absolutely ZERO pressure there. Yeah, I'm dealing with long days, but it's revolved around busses and trains, so it's not like I'm battling traffic. And, of course, I'm in debt and probably always will be, but I'm living at home with a clear plan on how to get out of it. Things. Are. Going. Smoothly.

And yet, I'm off kilter.

Which I guess brings me to a topic of discussion I was going to bring up earlier this week but put off in hopes that I'd actually manage a decent night's sleep. I was going to start it out with the opening line of: "You're 27 and single; WHAT in the HELL happened?"

Pretty much what I was going to get into was that by the time you're my age, if you haven't already found someone you're planning on probably settling down with, good luck with what remains. Because all those kind, loving, supportive, NON-crazy women out there ... they're all taken. What's left for me is pretty much damaged goods anyway you snag it (which, obviously, means that I'M damaged goods mostly in the psyche department, but that's really neither here nor there). Either it's someone who can't commit because her personality drives everyone away, or because she's too fickle, or because she's too career-oriented to even BEGIN to think about being in a relationship. Or, it's someone who's married. And I've got to be THAT guy who tries to pry away the kind, loving, supportive, NON-crazy woman from a man who surely doesn't appreciate her.

You get where I'm going with this. Pretty much it's another one of those I'll Die Alone doomsday scenarios that leaves me diving into the nearest pint of Cherry Garcia.

Which, of course, is how my dog died now isn't it? No, not through too much Cherry Garcia. He hit his sexual peak when he wasn't even 3 years old and got a steady diet of zipola for the next 8 or 9 years. As for me? ... Let's not even go there.