I love sleeping.
No, I mean, I lurv it. I want to marry sleeping and have little baby sleepings and then grow distant and go to sleeping couples counseling and learn a new appreciation for my life with sleeping. I’d buy financial instruments with sleeping, and go on separate vacations once in a while but always be excited to see sleeping again.
What the hell’s a financial instrument, by the way? A trombone made out of dollar bills? Never trust anybody who dresses that well but still works in a place with more surveillance cameras than bathrooms.
But, so sleep. It’s funny, I realized the other night that I make a lot of noise when I lay down in bed; groaning and stretching and joints popping and fidgeting around. I don’t wake anybody up, but you’d think I was having an orgasm with all that fanfare.
Then it occurred to me – I think about sleep a lot. When I have a little time to myself in a private place, I totally treat myself to a little nap.
I’m always ready to sleep, anywhere, anytime.
I check out beds and couches with desirous eyes.
I always feel like bragging about a really good sleep, but feel vaguely inappropriate doing so.
Sleeping, it seems, is the new getting laid.
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to score.