To Sleep, Perchance to Dream, At My Desk, Face Down In a Puddle of My Own Drool

Being tired is a normal experience for most of us. We live in a world where work, social, and family responsibilities often add up to more hours than are even available in a day and so we cut out sleep when we can. We'll stay up a couple of extra hours to get a project done or just watch something on TV because up until that point we've been going non-stop. That is the tired that I know and have come to accept. Today I am not feeling that kind of tired. Today is the kind of tired that caffeine doesn't touch and that you can't shake off with a quick stroll around the block. This is tired that hangs on you and pins you to whatever surface you happen to be against.

I am not commonly an insomniac. In fact I'm usually very much the opposite which makes the reason for this exhaustion all the more puzzling. I'm really not used to waking up at 3am. Staying up until 3am happens occasionally, but starting out sleeping and then waking up that early is not something I'm in the habit of doing. To those of you among my friends, family, and acquaintances who routinely have to endure this sort of involuntary neuropsychological fuckery, I applaud you for not murdering anyone (that I know of). I write this mostly as a warning and a request for help. If you hear me snoring from behind my office door or see me nodding off in a meeting, nudge me. It's embarrassing enough already that there's no need to be concerned with my dignity. I lost that a long time ago. After all, there is important stuff to wear myself out doing, and I should probably be awake for it.

Also, to anyone that I might end up murdering today, I'm sorry. I am normally not a violent sociopath. Really, ask any of my friends or family. I am normally a sweet, funny, teddy bear of a human being. It's not you it's me, or more accurately the sleep deprivation. I promise it won't happen again as long as I get some motherfucking shuteye tonight.

Home Is Where the Fart Is

Having spent the day cleaning and organizing, which can be kind of a depressing task these days, I decided I would try and lighten my mood by writing a little something. The title came to me while I was out walking Nacho. Many of my best ideas happen when I am walking the dog. I don't know if this is one of them, but here goes nothing...

If you have known me for any length of time, you probably know that my digestive system is the source of a lot of amusement and frustration on my part. I've always had kind of a touchy gut and things got really interesting after studying abroad in Russia the summer between my junior and senior years of college. My intestines have never been the same since that bout of weapons grade food poisoning. Seriously, given how many people in my class got sick with that stuff I think the hotel may have confused the regular eggs with a misplaced stash of old Soviet bioweapons. The point of all of this is simply to point out that if poop and fart jokes are not your cup of tea then perhaps we aren't going to get along. My life is basically one big fart joke after all.

This brings me back to the title. Home is truly where the fart is, or at least home is where I can fart freely and not be judged for it. I hope this little blurb has not offended you. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom.