Tuesday, February 22, 2005

My poor bed. And poor me.
A couple nights ago my eyes started to close around seven. And it was with great pride and rejoicing that I was actually in bed with the lights out by eight thirty. This, as I'm sure you can guess is an extremely rare occurrence. In fact, practically non-existent. I settled down for my usual 1/2-1 hour random pointless thinking before drifting off. I was getting there too, when, ##bing## my eyes pop open. I glanced warily at my glowing alarm clock (which I hate, abhor, and despise, but couldn't live without). What met my gaze was the red 8:56. I groaned inwardly. O.k., fine, I believe it was out loud. I am well aware that my mental clock has trouble knowing that 9 to 11 is the usual time for working girls like me to go to bed. But no one can say I'm not a fighter. I turned my back, pretended I was still tired, and closed my eyes. Every intention of mine was to beat this thing. I don't know how it happened, but my next actions were unavoidable.
I found myself in push-up position. With the flick of one foot and pumping my arms against the bed I could get decent height. Then slam against the bed again, and the groaning "springs" would help launch me into the air again. After several repetitions I would maneuver into a sudden twist resulting in hitting the bed on my back.
I grinned to myself, and promptly discovered if I held my body just the right angle I could pretty good height without even using my arms from my back. Then, flip, back on my stomach. After such a rush I would bury my head in my pillow, giggle with glee, and proceed to start from the beginning.
This made me hungry. So I sat on the kitchen floor in my boxers eating grapes, chocolate chips, and drinking juice. Thoughly re-energized I retired again with a book, and read until my mind thought it might be able to rest. Three hours later, off goes above mentioned alarm.
*grins*, or, *groans*, maybe.
I have a habit of bouncing on my bed. I should take bets on how long it'll be until the legs just break off. An old bed is like an old car. You don't need to worry over actually living with them.
I have broken blinds in my room. Reminisce of the night I watched Much Ado About Nothing. I was over-tired, but high on the thought that I had the next day off. I did a very nice prolonged handstand in my dining room, then pirouetted in the mirror and flew through my bedroom door landing on my back on my bed. At this point my feet flew back and hit the blinds. Which I found horribly funny in said state of mind.
I don't know if I'm crazy. Or just a bachelorette living it for all it's worth.

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