Sleep

I have friends that say they love sleeping with their loved one. That they prefer it, they like to cuddle and feel safe and all that crap. I for one am not one of those people. Most of you are probably like, “oooh well it’s because you’ve never even slept with a guy, how can that be true, you don’t even know.”

Know what the answer to that is?

“Shut the hell up”. That’s what.

I don’t need to conduct an experiment to know the idea of sharing even one part of my mattress or a sliver of the blankets drives me up a friggen wall. I like my space, I like to fling around, and I like to wake up in the morning curled in a knot of blankets that takes me half an hour to get out of. Unless I have some freakishly long bed where I can’t even see the other person, I don’t want them to have any part of my sleeping pattern. There are a few specific reasons too.

One being that when I sleep, I fling around like a fish out of water. It takes me about ten minutes or so to get comfy, and I don’t know whether or not I’ll be sleeping on the inside or the outside of the bed. I don’t think I should be obligated to a side of the bed! It’s my damn bed.  I roll around my bed, curling my arms around my pillows, going into fetal position, lying flat on my back, to curling my legs around the blankets like some failed act from Cirque du Soleil: Obese Edition or some such shit.  

Furthermore, I have an unexplainable ability to wake up with clothing either completely off my body, or somehow parts of me have fallen out that I would most like to conceal. I don’t need to wake up and look over at my loved one, smile after a good night’s sleep to look down and discover my titty has somehow made its way out from my tank top, or in fact, my pants are missing. Sometimes I like to sleep with loose pants, and inevitably they fall down, revealing my not so in-shape ass to the world.

When I was younger, I would wake up with my pyjamas off and I honestly thought I had been abducted by aliens. This isn’t even a joke. I remember it quite well. 

Since I haven’t slept over at anyone’s in a while, or in the same bed with them for that fact, I don’t really know what is to be expected of me. I have extremely vivid dreams, and I can’t say yes or no as to whether or not I thrash around the bed trying to fight off the dinosaurs I tend to dream of at least once a week. I was told one time on a field trip that I had been moaning in my sleep, on the bus, in front of the whole group of kids. That didn’t go over too well with me and has turned me off sleep overs as well. Nothing about sleeping with someone else seems appealing to me. Sure I’ll cuddle, but you can go home once I’m tired. 

I don’t even plan on sharing a bed with my husband to be honest. We can share a room, but I want my own bed. One time someone told me that was stupid and what’s the point to getting married if you aren’t sharing a bed? Obviously this person has strange morals and I didn’t listen to them.

Hands

As an artist, I have pretty good hand-eye coordination. I’m kick ass when it comes to catching things. If I’m all, “Hey mom pass me the converter!” and she throws me it, I catch that shit like a cat. Better than my cat actually, because my cat’s a dumbass. But that’s an entirely different story. However, there is one thing I lack at, and I don’t even know how to specify it. I have come to the conclusion that my hands have a mind of their own and are in fact not part of my body.

Ever been holding something and you go to move it and it flings out of your hand like a poltergeist has taken hold of it? That’s my hands, but all the time. The simple task of picking something up turns into a warzone, or will result in objects flinging halfway across the room.

For example, the other day I went to pick up my body cream. I looked forward to being moisturized and it didn’t occur to me that anything bad would or even could happen with the simple task of lifting a bottle of body moisturizer. Apparently I was wrong.

Upon lifting the bottle from my desk, my hands decided that no, they didn’t not want to hold the moisturizer and slammed them back on the desk. My hands didn’t just let go of the moisturizer, they forcefully slammed the damned bottle on my desk creating a mess of the other things that were on my desk. I don’t think that these things, whatever they happened to be at the time, were very happy.

This has happened on many occasions. One memorable time in particular, during gym we each had to throw a baseball to our partners. Now I’m sure you’re aware by this point that I lack any type of motivation to be physical, and I’ll also tell you I suck at every sport imaginable. Every single sport.

Anyways, we were instructed to throw the balls to our partner. Okay, cool, what could be so hard in that? The answer should be nothing, apparently for my hands and terrible athletic skills the answer was everything. Our teacher blew the whistle and what did my hands do? Instead of throwing the ball like my mind had planned, my hands said, “Hell no” and slammed the ball right on the ground. There was no majestic toss of the ball. Not even a feeble throw that made it half way. My hands just threw it on the ground. They weren’t having any of this baseball nonsense. Needless to say I never tried out for baseball. 

Also, pencils. My hands hate holding pencils, which is kind of odd considering it’s my main tool when I’m making my beautiful and sometimes breathe taking works of art. But nope, any time the pencil in my hand gets even a bit loose, my hand flings that shit across the room like it’s nobody’s business. I will somehow move my hand in such a way that the pencil flies across like a Canadian goose going south. Except I like my pencil and want it stay. I could give to farts about geese. I have often had to drag my large self across the room because of it.

Having to explain to your teacher that you have somehow thrown your pencil across a class room is a bit difficult when you are unsure as to why it happened yourself.

Skin Puppets

I was going to bed last night and I realized I should go get some goodnight hugs. So I went, and I got some, and they were awesome. Which brings me to part of this posts topic. Hugs.

Hugs are wonderful, truly god’s gift to earth. If you are feeling bad and  you hug someone,  you’re instantly a little bit better! I don’t know why doctors haven’t prescribed hugs yet for depression, anxiety, panic and so forth.

Before a hug:
 

After a hug:

It’s a cure all, like soup. In fact, I bet the cure to cancer has been under our noses the whole time. Who needs chemo when I’ve got hugs!

Don’t actually replace chemo with hugs though. That’s probably a bad idea.

Enough about hugs and on to the good stuff.

What I dislike. A lot.

Stretching.

There has never been something as dissatisfying as stretching. You start off a stretch feeling like this is what you really need. I feel tense so I’m going to stretch! I’ll feel relieved, and better for it! So you start off. Stretching all good.

You feel like things are going well. You get that little shiver of feel good, you can hear it in your ears, like a whisper from the divine hug gods. Encouraging you, “keep going, keep going” and you do. Because damn it! This stretch will be the best friggen stretch I’ve ever had.

But then things start to get weird, you’re starting to relax from that god gifted stretch and something doesn’t feel right. You don’t feel as good as you should after a good stretch. Instead, your muscles feel like they’ve been turned to bologna, or some other low quality luncheon meat. Your bones have turned to noodles.

This isn’t right. Just a second ago the gods had gifted you with this magnificent stretch. Now you’re a lump of bologna and noodles. And that isn’t appealing to the body in any sense. For some reason, you also end up tired. Why are you tired? It wasn’t even like that was much of an exercise. I may be out of shape, but a stretch shouldn’t have this much of an effect on my body. I can go up the stairs and feel less exhausted then when I stretch. You’re confused at this point. Wondering why you even began to stretch at all, because you knew this was coming. It happens every time you stretch. Why would this be any different?

Our bodies are tricking us, making us tired for no reason. I’ve discovered that our bodies are against us, making us tired so our bodies can take over our minds. Soon the whole world will be stretching and walking up stairs until we’re mindless skin puppets listening not to our minds but our bodies. What will our bodies want to accomplish? I don’t know. I don’t listen to it.

Trust no one. Especially yourself.