Disclaimer: "Not that give you a shit, but..."
In almost every work week, there comes a certain point when I sort of collapse to the ground, beat my fists on the floor, and concede that I won't be catching up on sleep until the weekend. If I'm lucky, it happens Thursday night. This week, I knew on Sunday.
I was nursing a terrible hangover all day, and made the poor choice to avoid a nap and try to hit the sack at a reasonable hour. Instead, I went to play poker at a friend's place, ended up in a tournament (I won, the only good part of the day), and came home just shy of midnight. At that point, I could still have salvaged a decent night's sleep and a chance to recover by Wednesday. I told myself I'd just check e-mail, brush my teeth, and call it a night.
Then, through the intervention of a force beyond my control, I opened the 'Friday Night Lights Season 3' folder on my desktop. As my mouse hovered over the episode three icon, I understood I was on the verge of a terrible mistake. It approximated the wash of guilt a drug addict experiences when he ties the rubber hose around his arm (I imagine). It feels like the exact worst choice, but there's basically no way to resist.
Two hours and two episodes later, I knew the upcoming week would be horrible. And I repeated the error last night, staying up 'til one with the boys and girls from Dillon, Texas. The show is very, very great. Good news: there are only thirteen episodes to the season, so I'm sure by the weekend I'll have torn through them all. Then I can resume normal activities, like eating, sleeping, talking to other humans, and seeing the outside world.
I envy the hell out of people who only need four or five hours of sleep. Anything less than seven, and I can kinda become a miserable asshole, especially at work. Today is a particularly nerve-grating experience. Every time someone walks into my section, I feel a pulse of rage throb in my temple. Every voice, every telephone ring, every interaction with another human is like Chinese water torture. Drip, drip, drip. Even the one good-looking girl on the floor is an unwelcome presence. That's just the way it goes.
So that's my excuse for why the blog stinks on this trying Tuesday. The Yankees-Jays series starts tonight, which is huge since Toronto is running an early blitzkrieg on the AL East. It's time to stop the bleeding. I'll have something more substantive tomorrow, but I leave you now with a wholesome picture of Lyla Garrity from "Friday Night Lights."