Two years ago I could sleep through the night, every night. You could say I was a champion sleeper. Now it’s a thing. I got a thing. A sleep thing.
First I must take a hot bath, temperature just shy of scolding. That way I’m almost hypnotized by the heat. Like drawing a straight line in front of a chicken, I plop down with my head right under the blade.
Then there’s more heat required for my back, which without the constant heat of a heating pad, is stiff like an old man on viagra. Nothing pretty about that.
I must refrain from consuming liquid around four in the afternoon, five if I’m feeling rebellious and childish, drinking 8 ounces of juice in one gulp then displaying my red stained fruit punch tongue as a challenge to the pee Gods. If I lose, it’s free refills all night at the…
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