It’s officially 10 days into the new year and I am feeling scandalous.
You see, I’ve managed to convince myself that I am the polar opposite of a sexpot. Incidentally, only a few people I know would probably disagree with me. And while being the polar opposite of a sexpot has its benefits … actually, let’s be serious. I was hoping to get a smooth transition out of that line, but being the anti-sexpot is about the worst thing you could possibly be.
Now I have a few balls in my court, figuratively speaking. For one, I am not a beluga whale in any sense that a deformation resembling a beluga whale might bring upon a human. I also like to fancy myself reasonably up-to-date with pop culture. (After all, I just held a Trina vs. Nicki Minaj argument with a girl where I dropped the line, “But Trina is the baddest bitch!” You can’t get more up-to-date than that.)
But, alas, I have a flaw: I am a disaster with men. Whether or not I’m considering getting them in my pants, for some reason I always seem to lose it around guys. And my propensity towards fuck-up-ery is positively correlated to how much I think a guy is packing in his Bermuda shorts. Not. Good.
So I’m changing my ways, one habit at a time. I’ll let you know how it goes along the way — though for the spoiler-inclined, let me assume that it will end horribly. So the sexpot transformation starts tonight. Or should I say, this morning?
You heard me: Today is the day I stay up past midnight. The truth is, I have this compulsive problem whereby I completely shut down after, oh, say ten o’clock at night. I know, like the crotchety old lady that I am. Believe me, I’ve heard it all.
If by 10:15 p.m. I can still stand, I become this sagging, wrinkled, deformed creature of the night. Not unlike Victoria Beckham’s neck, as it were.
I’ll stare foggy-eyed right at you, but instead of responding to any conversation you might be having with me, I’ll instead let slide a little sliver of drool from the corner of my mouth. If you’re lucky, I might even babbletalk you something in my semi-induced sleep … most likely about the massive amounts of crack that I have never done, or something ridiculous along those lines. You know, just to get the ball rolling.
To my classmates, my sleeping habit is disgusting. To my father who suffers from the same ailment, it is natural — as far as he concerned, everyone else is disgusting. But to that “everyone else,” my little problem, insomnia’s kryptonite if you will, is probable cause for medical treatment.
To put my disorder in a more positive light, I fancy myself an early bird. In comparison to the everyone and their mother who seems to function somewhat normally after 11 p.m., I have this sneaking bad habit where I tend to wake up at 4 a.m., right about the time my roommate falls asleep. It’s a wacky schedule, but she’s still married to me on Facebook, so we make it work.
You see, I always thought of my wack-job sleeping habits as pretty normal before college. You know, before the person who lived with me gave the stink eye one morning when I got up to work on an essay. She forgave me, but that kind of sainthood doesn’t come by so easily.
When I nonchalantly tried to explain my morning homework propensities to my Chinese section classmates, they began to ridicule me, suggesting that I am a fool for not being able to tell the difference between the number 4 (si) and the number 10 (shi) after six months of studying the language. (For the record, I can. Assholes.)
It was only after a series of flailing hand motions that closely resembled what I imagine a drowning midget looks like did my misguided classmates finally grasp what I was trying to explain. They immediately shot me stares that could only equate to the sentiment: “You are officially insane and I would never date you.”
But considering that I’m writing this lovely vignette at a healthy 12:53 a.m., or as my confused laptop tells me, 0:23 a.m., I can safely say that I have given my sleepy habit the ol’ “FUCK OFF.” And off it will fuck. Indeed.
Cristina Stiller is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She may be reached at email@example.com. Believe You Me appears alternate Mondays this semester.
Original Author: Cristina Stiller