Writing something - is it a book? Probably not. If it were I’d call it “I Can’t Sleep”... but it’s probably nothing.

I can’t sleep. I know if I were to leave my body right this minute, float up to the ceiling and look back down at my body, I’d see my potato shaped lump under the blanket, my slack, half-moon face, and bed-head messy pink hair. But if I could see how I feel inside my head, like a shattered plate missing pieces so that it’s impossible to be put back whole, I would not look comfortable or at peace like a potato. If I could see my body representing that, I’m sure I would see my limbs impossibly askew, like a soft-bodied rag doll. Or like the fully ‘poseable‘ Barbie, in the pose she found herself in after the terrible accident she had in her convertible Malibu Corvette. I’ll never forget it, she drank too much and Ken was being a total dick that night. So she jumped in her sexy pink car, tearing off down the slick road, losing control, tires screaming, the car flipping over, and slamming into the metal barrier. She flew right over the windshield and landed in the road, her limbs all akimbo, her pretty pink pump with the silky pink polka-dot bow laying a few feet away, and her Italian silk kerchief snatched away by the covetous wind. Tragic.

Poseable is a word made up by advertisers to sell dolls and action figures, it was added to the dictionary in 2006. I love words, I get word of the day emails, occasionally I'll get a word I don't know and get very excited to get to know it. Already knowing the word is also gratifying, proving that my hobby of writing out pages of the dictionary as a child wasn't a waste of time. Is that weird? I really admire the flowery form of language from times long past, it was often very sarcastic or very sexual, but always disguised in grace and dripping with saccharine. Shakespeare was so good, “Me think thou art a general offence and every man should beat thee.” All’s Well That Ends Well (Act 2, Scene 3). Ooohhh, or “That trunk of humours, that bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swollen parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuffed cloak-bag of guts, that roasted Manningtree ox with pudding in his belly, that reverend vice, that grey Iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years?” Henry IV Part 1 (Act 2, Scene 4).

I don’t sleep well. I thought perhaps I would try writing for a bit, maybe it will clear my mind. I wrote a lot when I was younger, and well into my 20s, more and more occasionally since, I’m afraid. If you’re actively trying to clear your mind, like counting sheep or mind singing fucking 99 bottles of beer on the wall while you focus on your breathing, then you’re consciously doing those things ergo - not clearing your mind but rather giving it something to focus on. This ad came on earlier this evening and the man I live with said, ‘hey’ and nodded at the massive TV, ‘don’t do anything for 15 seconds’. So I lowered my phone and waited 15 seconds to make the observation that us watching the relaxing tropical scene with a purple circle that counted down the 15 seconds was doing something, it was watching television. Personally, I think you’re getting into dangerous territory there, some real tricky shit, because if watching TV is doing nothing what the fuck are we doing with our lives man?! At least I double task and play on my phone 75% of the time, at least I am doing something.

I quite liked this. I think I’ll do it again, but I’m not committing to it or anything.

Good night.