Scraping. Scraping. Bone on bone. What is that sound? Pulling myself out of angry dreams about betrayal, loss. Bone on bone. Sliding, scraping. What is that sound?
My eyes focus enough to find my glasses; my glasses focus my vision on the source of the sound.
A small tortoiseshell cat stares back at me from inside my chest of drawers. Where she has been scraping at a piece of wood she wants for her own.
Vanquishing insomnia, for me, involved the temporary use of doctor-prescribed medication (read: sedatives) and then a strict adherence to certain rules, like not doing things in my bed other than bedlike things: no reading, no using the computer, no talking on the phone. No eating right before bed. And no napping.
I’ve become so lazy about these rules, breaking almost every one. Now I am up, wide awake, and the cat has fallen back to sleep. I found an old photo I took and I made a little button. I did some final fiddling with Adium, my current multi-IM client of choice. I composed the “Mahna Mahna” ringtone on my mobile. I stared blankly at the NYC-only beta of dodgeball.social, the new mobile-phone social networking idea that seems neat yet outstandingly horrific for an introvert like me. Taxes are already filed, or I’d have something truly boring to do yet.
I am running out of quiet, somnolent things to do. There are two and a half hours before the alarm goes off. In the morning, I have to decide whether or not to accept the wedding gig in prison next month. I am enthralled with the idea of experiencing something so far outside my current world; I haven’t even thought about what I’d charge.
And that, my friends, is in a nutshell why I am simultaneously so brilliantly happy and so dreadfully poor.
In the future, there will be lullaby lines that people like me can call for a nice, soothing song sung by a real live person. Or at the very least, in the future all chests of drawers will be made of Teflon. Either one suits me just fine.