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[Dream] The stubborn mokie brain...
Sunday, 26 August 2012 02:08 amFriday I was invited to dinner and drinks to celebrate the 
awesome Ms E's glorious, if brief, return to St. Louis. The time: 6:30pm.
I awoke at 8:30pm, two hours late. I was not just disappointed--I was devastated.
For all my complaints about minimum wage jobs and how difficult it can be to plan get-togethers when you don't have set hours, or when you have set hours that don't jibe well with the rest of the world's set hours, freelance hasn't exactly changed anything for me there. My workday is effectively 5pm to 3am many days. If I didn't love the work I do, I'd probably cry at the delicious irony of it all.
Several important last-minute jobs have made me miss recent gatherings, and the wonderful exec who sends me these jobs recently called me out and put her foot down, essentially telling me to put on pants and go hang out with my friends once in a while before I went all squirrelly. Thus I'd sworn not to miss this one, minor advertising emergencies be damned.
And yet there it was: 8:30pm.
I laid back down in the hammock to pout. (Yes, I still sleep in a hammock.) I tossed. I turned. I grumbled. I slept and woke and slept and woke a few times. I considered getting up, then ruthlessly shot it down. Why bother? What was the point? It was already too late! Then my bladder chimed in, but I stuck to my guns. No! I would not get up! I would not get up just so I could be missing everything! It was stupid, and I was going back to bed.
At some point, a less sleepy portion of my brain pointed out that it was awfully damn bright for 8:30pm...
I begrudgingly got up to use the bathroom, shooting the clock a death-glare as I passed: 2:30pm.
Wait--2:30?
Yes, I dreamt that I overslept, then went back to sleep in the dream and refused to get up in the dream.
And so that evening I went lighter on the beer than I might otherwise, because who was to say that I was really awake yet?
awesome Ms E's glorious, if brief, return to St. Louis. The time: 6:30pm.I awoke at 8:30pm, two hours late. I was not just disappointed--I was devastated.
For all my complaints about minimum wage jobs and how difficult it can be to plan get-togethers when you don't have set hours, or when you have set hours that don't jibe well with the rest of the world's set hours, freelance hasn't exactly changed anything for me there. My workday is effectively 5pm to 3am many days. If I didn't love the work I do, I'd probably cry at the delicious irony of it all.
Several important last-minute jobs have made me miss recent gatherings, and the wonderful exec who sends me these jobs recently called me out and put her foot down, essentially telling me to put on pants and go hang out with my friends once in a while before I went all squirrelly. Thus I'd sworn not to miss this one, minor advertising emergencies be damned.
And yet there it was: 8:30pm.
I laid back down in the hammock to pout. (Yes, I still sleep in a hammock.) I tossed. I turned. I grumbled. I slept and woke and slept and woke a few times. I considered getting up, then ruthlessly shot it down. Why bother? What was the point? It was already too late! Then my bladder chimed in, but I stuck to my guns. No! I would not get up! I would not get up just so I could be missing everything! It was stupid, and I was going back to bed.
At some point, a less sleepy portion of my brain pointed out that it was awfully damn bright for 8:30pm...
I begrudgingly got up to use the bathroom, shooting the clock a death-glare as I passed: 2:30pm.
Wait--2:30?
Yes, I dreamt that I overslept, then went back to sleep in the dream and refused to get up in the dream.
And so that evening I went lighter on the beer than I might otherwise, because who was to say that I was really awake yet?
