Before Consciousness

I've only had two hours of sleep.

Around 6 p.m. yesterday, Manual's EIC called in a favor: would you please interview Manny Villar for us at 9 am tomorrow? Sure, I said. I'll punch you, I told him, but sure, I'll do it for you.

So I go to bed early. Or at least, what's early for me: 1 a.m..

I toss and turn, I try to count sheep. As I stare at my ceiling (I really should get those stupid stars painted over), they slowly mutate into furry white gazelles. Then, angered by my tyrannical reign, they stomp down the white picket fences and charge headfirst into their savannah. I read V For Vendetta, watch snippets of "Secretary", eat half a butterscotch bar, regret it, then think about him, among other things.

I'll see him when I go to the gym later. I feel better. Maybe he'll finally ask me out. What should I wear? My black top with the red trim and the chopsuey cut-out? Should I wear my best jeans, the one where my ass doesn't look quite so gigantic, with a black tank and my favorite red poncho over it? I'm 32 flavors and then some. Will the peso go all the way up to 40 to a dollar? And I'm beyond your peripheral vision, so you might want to turn your head. All those hospital trips: I think Estrada's a hypochondriac. Someday you're gonna get hungry, eat all of the words you just said. James Spader, now, he can put me in the hospital anytime he wants to. And what of her? I play "The Goddess", imagine what she'd say that could lead me away from here. I wonder where she is. Is she thinking about me? I haven't seen her in almost a week. So lovely. So beautiful, I feel like coming again...

By 5 a.m. I finally, fitfully sleep.

I awake two hours later. I crawl out of bed. I shower half-asleep, almost slipping on the tiles. I confuse the face wash with the foot scrub. Now my face is all minty.

Then today, at 730 am, they call and tell me Villar's people have rescheduled.

(insert anguished scream here)

I'm not a morning person. My brain doesn't function at peak capacity before noon. In fact, it's very nearly vegetative between sunrise and 10 a.m.. This is why I chose to become a writer: I could at least control my hours, to work when I wanted to, so that I didn't have to be a slave to the bundy clock or answer to an odious boss everyday. With the kind of work I do, I'm beginning to realize the hours aren't that much different from having an office job. More often than not, when it's pre-printing crunch time, it's worse because you're asked to produce quality work very, very quickly.

As of this writing, I'll attempt at four more hours of sleep.

Hold me closer, tiny dancer...