Evolution comes to a grinding halt...

Sleep (verb, used without object):

                        “To take the rest afforded by a suspension of voluntary bodily functions and the natural suspension, complete or partial, of consciousness; cease being awake.”  (Dictionary.com)

             Sleep is highly overrated yet we consider it such big deal.  You lie down when its dark outside, close your eyelids, mentally escape the day through the white noise whirring out of a box fan in the corner of the room, and hope to hell Mr. Sandman cracks a sledgehammer into your face with enough force to keep you down until the morning rooster clears his throat.  Last night my subconscious decided upon itself to hide in the shadows of my conscious like a coward, thus casting aside any chance of Sleep (as a verb being used in correlation with myself, as the object) ever happening.

            As for those bodily functions suspending themselves?  Bah.  Explain that to my bladder because he misses the company memo.

            2:32 this morning. I plunged head first from out of my dream cloud and fell back into the darkness I started out with.  One moment I’m selling high-heel Reebok’s to talking kangaroos while trying to manage the plugging in of 27 USB-powered single slice bagel toasters in a hidden store of someone’s weird basement, and suddenly I’m back in bed.

            As the serving plates of toasted bread were vacuumed back up into the Factory of Hallucinations, a real tightening of anxiety appeared in their stead.  I cleared the remaining cobwebs from my eyes so I could make way to the bathroom without tripping over anything breakable or acidic or snakes or stray children.  My mouth tasted like I’d been licking the belly of a dead cat (not recommended).  I took a swig of room temperature water from the toothpaste cup and squinted at myself in the mirror long enough to realize there was nothing worth seeing at 2:40am.  I noodle-legged it back to the bed and sat at the edge of the mattress as my wife changed sleep positions while lightly sighing because I wasn’t within arm’s length anymore.  I then updated my Facebook status on my phone (doesn’t everybody?), cursing the bastard Sandman as if he were in my network of friends and could read my thoughts on the matter.

            I got back under the covers and waited… but nothing sleep inducing happened other than the electric fan humming its familiar droning song (a sound which normally knocks me out cold).  I argued with my brain to get it to shut up but it wouldn’t comply.  Instead of kangaroos it reeled with thoughts of my job (which I’ve come to passionately loathe as of late) and other miscellaneous things you simply cannot change at 3:15am.  No matter what technique I tried to release me from the exhausting shackles of worry and dread, my insides continued to twist around themselves.

            And then, around 4 this morning as my subconscious dangled the teasing carrot of sleep on the strings of wind chimes and miniature tintinnabulums, I instantly remembered the most important question I’d heard in recent years.  It was one of the final things the wife had said to me as we were saying our goodnights.  Perhaps this was actually the cause of my restlessness at such an early hour…?

            “Why do men have nipples?”  She had asked inquisitively while lying on my chest, playfully flicking at the left one.

            The question was now swirling around the room like a force field created to intercept the Sandman’s crushing blow.  “Why indeed do I have these cursed things?” I mused to myself at 4:30 this morning.  “They don’t lactate (easily).  They’re so sensitive that I curl in to the fetal position when anything other than my shirt grazes them.  Bras are ineffective (they don’t come in my cup size).  Plus they give my wife something to yank at when she feels the need to get my attention.  Cut the worthless things off and donate them to science, says I.”

            And, with that last thought, I tugged on hers a couple times with just enough force to cause her to giggle a little in her sleep just as the gradient daylight trickled through the half-drawn window blinds.  My eyelids collapsed into my cheekbones.  Suddenly a mob of angry kangaroo’s surrounded me speaking in Australian accents and demanding immediate shoe fitting services.  I passed them each a cold bagel and politely advised them all to wait it out.  That answer didn’t fly.  Their boisterous leader jumped up and did a slow-motion, Matrix-style, roundhouse kick to my already super-sensitive chest, waking me back up at 6:15 to the sound of my cell phone alarm clock.

            Kangaroos apparently don’t appreciate the value of nipples.  That’s fine.  I don’t appreciate the value of bagel-hating, impatient kangaroos.