A Fucking Robot or Something Wrote This Shit

I'm beginning to think I'm not human.

You may very well have been three or so steps ahead of me in thinking this about me yourself for quite some time already. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that you're ahead of me. In fact...

Thank you.

I may very well be an alien, or some sort of medical marvel. I haven't decided which-- maybe I'm both! A medical marvelous alien medium-shirt-wearing miracle child. Mmm-HMM!

Allow me to explain why I think I'm, well, special, and, before you get totally turned off-- I promise, it has nothing to do with my writing prowess or my ability to drum my toes, which really freaks my wife out. My reasons for thinking thusly about myself lie predominantly in two of life's basic functions, (don't worry-- I'm not going to take this blog straight into the boom-boom and/or doo-doo room, much to your assured and appropriate amazement), and those functions are:

EATING & SLEEPING

Permit me to excorpundulate:

1.) Eating

Straight up, ladies: I can eat whatever the fuck I want. I know, you just clench your little fists and get all hot-and-bothered, but, hey-- what can I say?

It's the truth.

I am a fucking disgusting garbage disposal. I haven't put on a single pound in twelve years and counting. I eat seconds. I eat thirds. When I order lo mein, I can never decide which animal ought to be graced with the privilege of swimming amongst the noodles and peanut oil I receive (in quart size-- pints are for puss-o's) so I get the "House Lo-Mein." In Chinese, the word "House" translates to "Chicken, Pork, Beef, and Shrimp."

I am revolting. Revolt in revelatory revolution against my reviling, revolting revoltingness. I support your campaign against me and what I stand for.

Not only am I blessed with the metabolism and ability to eat whatever the hell I want (and whatever the hell YOU want, for that matter) without gaining any weight, I have also been granted ownership of ironclad intestines. I have not thrown up since I was a senior in high school.

How many of you socklickers can claim you made it through four years of liberal arts education without hraulgphing up at least a quarter of one of your lungs?

Obvs, the fact that I choose not to libate licentious liquors certainly contributes to the fact that I have clung to the ability to keep partially-digested food matters where they belong, but, honestly-- I've eaten some pretty sick shit in my days, and some pretty sick quantities of some pretty sick shit and, by all that's holy and all that's proper, I should mung-dung'd into the bowl numerous times, especially in my early twenties, when I routinely consumed two "Hungry Man" frozen dinners in one six-hour period.

Salisbury Steaks, motherfuckers.

I told you-- I am not human.

2.) SLEEPING

As I write this sentence of this blog, it's exactly 8:01pm, EST. Seeing as I have to wake up at 5:15am, I should probably be asleep right now, but that won't happen for another three hours. It rarely does. Sure, I've been in my pajamas since my wife and I came home from the gym at 5:45pm, but that doesn't mean I'm anywhere near ready for bed. Why? Because, the simple fact of the matter is: I don't sleep.

I don't need sleep, apparently, because only humans need sleep and, as we are discovering together: I am not human. I get a couple hours of sleep, literally, a couple, and then I'm making coffee, making lunch, walking two dogs, shoveling snow, driving to work within the confines of the law, interacting with all manner of sociopaths, borderlines, and other feces-smearing individuals according to established protocol and common sense, and then I come home and interact appropriately (?) with my wife and dogs.

Sleep? Who needs that?! NOT ME!

How do I know? Because I go to sleep at 11ish, and then, between 2:15 and 3:30 in the morning, I wake up. Why? I don't know. Because, um, I have a lot on my mind? I'm thinking about blog topics? There are obscure folk songs running through my head? I replay conversations between coworkers or patients that happened during the day? I obsess over paperwork I trick myself into thinking I didn't complete or sign? I'm hard and it's difficult to fall back to sleep when you're hard? My pajama pants are twisted because of the coefficient of friction proffered by the flannel sheets? You know-- twisted around my hard dick?

Well, I don't know-- whatever the reason is that I'm awake between the hours of 2:15 and 3:30 in the morning, the fact is, I'm awake. And, when you're awake at that time, you want to know exactly what time you've awakened so you know how much time you have left to sleep-- this is assuming, of course, that you are able to fall back to sleep for a sufficient portion of that time.

(You can't.)

So, if you're me which, in this scenario, you are (you lucky fucky), you are in a bit of a dilemma, see, because the alarm clock is on your wife's side of the bed, on her bedside table and, while its numbers are in gigantic red digital numerals that stand about a foot high, you can't see those numerals from that distance with your glasses off. Sure, you could reach over and put them on, but, when you're lying in bed, hard, with your pajama pants twisted around your legs like a straight trouser and folk music is running through your head, putting your eyeglasses on is basically just like running a white flag up the pole. It says, "I've given up. I'm never going back to sleep. I'm fucked."

And you don't want to give up. Because you're me, Hardon.

So, you prop yourself up by placing your right hand firmly on the bed and you try to push yourself over your long-suffering wife, straining and squinting so you can make out the numbers on the clock. And your long-suffering wife wordlessly, without opening her eyes or missing a beat, takes her left hand, presses it against your sternum, and shoves you back, flat onto the bed.

Because she is most definitely, beautifully, human.