• How droll.
    A Friday morning, nearly six thirty in the AM. You know, when grown ups wake, dress, hygenify themselves, and go off to work to sit in their miserable little cubicles. But I'm probably not much better than they are. I may not be a slave to corporate future, but I'm something worse. Far worse. Much worse.
    What am I?
    I'm a sleepless teenager.
    Six thirty, and I've yet to wake up. Actually, I've yet to go to bed. My my, aren't I the insomniac. But don't think it's because I want to. I can't. My eyes are shutting on their own, my concentration fuzzing--I have all the symptoms of a child ready for sleep. As soon as my head hits the pillow though, wide awake. Like an entire can of Rockstar was pumped into my blood.
    I hate it.
    I want to sleep so I can stop being paranoid about this storm.
    The wind is howling, the rain is coming down in sheets, and every little thing makes my heart jump into my throat and my imagination run. The trees are scraping against the roof and outer walls of the house while the wind rushes through the chimneys and screams breathlessly. It makes the screen door lift some before being slammed down again, making it sound like there's someone trying to get in. Or maybe like someone already in. Like sirens, the wind chimes around the court blare in the night (or morning, whichever you feel like), and they're likely setting off a car alarm somewhere in the neighborhood. And that's just the wind. Can you image the rain? It pitter-patters on the window , miming the sound of angry foot steps, and taps against the window in an attempt to simulate God knows what crashing into the window rapidly. The drops sound like bullets pounding onto, into, and completely through an empty drum.
    And you ask me why I can't sleep?
    The sun could come up, go down, and explode. But I'd never know. The clouds are too thick.

    Great. My scalp is bleeding.