From Discontent to Loathing: The Current Status of Sleep

The signs are all there.

The pale skin.

The insomnia.

The suspiciously outdated slang.

The bloodlust.

It’s all becoming clear… I’m a writer.

*Mr. X: Bloodlust?! Audrey, do we need to talk?
Audrey: Don’t give me any guff, bucko, or I’ll sock ya!

It is 3:07 AM as I write this, and once again I am not sleeping. As I made my way home a few hours ago, I contemplated my options:

  1. Go straight to bed. It’s nearly midnight, and it’s the healthy thing to do.
  2. Don’t go to bed. Have some sugar, watch a long-cancelled comedy, do some work**, figure out what elements I’m still missing for my Halloween costume…

Clearly, I chose option 1.

It was on the subway platform, at the end of a long day, waiting for the train, when I thought to myself: I hate sleep.

I hate it. I don’t want to. I can’t, I won’t, and I hate it.

It wasn’t always this way. Sleep and I have a long history of difficulties, mainly revolving around my inability to achieve it, but we’ve come to a place where I simply do not want to sleep. I go to bed because I have to, then I get out of bed as quickly as I can.***

**Mr. X, in his review of this post, asked why sugar and TV were in there, but working was not. I totally did some work. It’s just not as interesting as a mini-Snickers.

***Which, if you think about it, is an improvement from my previous state, in which I could not get out of bed at all.

I wrote a pretty excellent piece on the subject****, in a notebook I currently do not have access to. Alas. The elusive better wording. The summation of my epiphany, however, was this: I do not want to sleep because to sleep is to end the day, and many days I do not accomplish anything, and as long as I stay awake there is still potential to salvage that day, while to give in to sleep gives the day a finality akin to failure.

****if I may say so myself.

As to my current sleep issue, I’m waiting on that epiphany. I’ve got hints of something brewing… a discomfort with my current shelter, a whirlwind of anxiety, the fact that this is the only time of day when it’s quiet (but that’s what I’ve always loved about the night). What brought on this night’s burst of vehement awake-ness? This week’s forced insomnia? Why am I so reluctant to sleep? Perhaps because I am so unexcited about tomorrow?

One of the problems of not sleeping, incidentally, is losing one’s wits. Hence this post.


You May Now Enter!

Early morning washroom woes:

Dad: (Comes to washroom door. Sees it is locked.)

Dad: (loudly) AUDREY?

Me: Yes?

Dad: (not hearing, raising his voice) LEX????

Me: I said it was me!!

Dad: (not hearing, raising his voice to an early morning bellow) AUDREY?????

Me: YES!!!!!!

Dad: (satisfied, walks away)

What is the point of this exercise? “You’ve guessed correctly! You may now come inside!!”



On Audrey Time, Always.

This title courtesy of JB, and one of my favourites of his sayings.

Many moons ago, when he was just back from a business trip across the world and still feeling the different time zone, he wrote to me in the middle of the night, only to be surprised with a prompt response. “Of course you’re awake,” said he.

JB has a fondness for writers, which would make him quite a narcissist as he is a wonderful writer himself.


These days I am living a rather transient life, wherein I see my computer only briefly in the mornings and evenings, then spend the entirety of the day in different parts of the city. Compy is suspicious of how much time I’m spending with Phone, but he need not worry – Phone is a silly old thing with no data, he can never give me what Compy gives me. But it’s good to keep ‘em guessing, I guess.

And so, I record my thoughts in a most archaic – or romantic, depending on how you look at it – fashion: in a little notebook I carry around with me. I’m not sure my handwriting is getting any less atrocious, but I’m trying(!), and practice don’t hurt.

The point I am coming to – yes, there is always a point! – is that I’m all over the timeline. Thoughts and essays from days, weeks and months ago litter my space, and when I return home, late in the evening, to my current, privacy-less abode, I do not have the energy or wherewithal to type up and share the day’s thoughts. If any.

Now, on the rare occasion a free period will arise, I will race into Compy’s loving embrace, prepared to finally release my nonsense in to the digital universe – only to stumble. “Um, it says ‘today’, should I change the language? I mean, as far as the reader knows, ‘today’ is today and not last Monday. Oh, but I reference the weather, and it was peculiar that day. To say nothing of accuracy!’ For I like to be very precise.

“Curses!” I snap. Compy flinches, and I assure him he is not the target of my displeasure. (For this, anyway – what the hell is he doing with his monitor?) My curses are directed to how overly complicated I’ve made things with the timeline. “What can I post NOW?!” I yell, before reassuring a frightened Compy that it’s a rhetorical question.

So this is how I’m rectifying the situation. With an extremely verbose (sorry) disclaimer that the following posts will be completely and utterly out of sync.

Because I’m on Audrey Time. Always.

Posted at 02:32 ATA


Audrey Contemplates The Futility Of What-Ifs

I know this is a common one. I know I’m not alone.

When it comes to the what ifs, it’s as common as the cold, and about as troubling.

What if? What could have been! Is it still possible? What if it happened? How different would my life be? What if I just… what if he… what if she… what if…

You obsess. You stress. You lie awake, thinking, what if, what if, what if.

Yet at the same time… you know.

(Not that you know what would happen IF – hence its stressful quality of NOT KNOWING)


Okay? Get it? Get it?



What if…


Audrey starts a blog!

There is a reason I’ve steered clear of creating an online presence. What is a blog if not a public journal? Aren’t journals meant to be private? Does anyone really need to know what I’m thinking, feeling or eating at any moment? If I may be so impolite: Who gives a fat flying fig?

However, Mr. X keeps lecturing me. “Work on your brand! Create an online presence! How are you not on social media?! Get on it gurl*! Do blogging! You’re good at it and/or I’m tired of all your e-mails! Let someone else enjoy** your clever writing for a change!”

*I may be paraphrasing. 

**More paraphrasing.

Very well, Mr. X, I’m caving! I will blog! I will tell EVERYONE that I’m drinking an iced tea as I write this and I will post pictures of cats! No… I won’t. You don’t own me, internet. I will be that one weirdo who posts pictures of bats. RABBATS. RABBITS! Like this one:


That I doodled for JB. (He loved it***!)

***I like speaking for others! They become so complimentary!!

I hope you’ll join me on this public/private journey, and maybe enjoy these posts, and maybe even interact with me in the comments section, which I am cautiously leaving open until I become inundated with death threats over that rabbit, which would be a totally reasonable**** reaction.

****I am employing irony for humour. Please don’t take it literally. I literally will explode.