Sleeping used to be a scary thing for me because I never knew what would happen. I had an unconscious proclivity for nocturnal chaos, and it has taken years for me to control the night time potentials.
My parents used to find me asleep on top of my dresser in the fetal position. They’d warn me about how I could fall off and break my neck, and I’d look at them like they were stupid.
It got to the point where I actually began to prefer the dresser over my bed. It may have been dangerous, but there was one thing I liked about sleeping up there.
I never peed on myself.
However, I was prone to pee everywhere else. I would pee and sleep on the bathroom floor with the toilet inches away from me. I would constantly wake up on my back at the same spot in the middle of my living room.
Sometimes I would wake up after my bedtime bladder dysfunction had taken place, but other times I would wake up while satiating my Ninja Turtle underwear with unintentional urination. I just couldn’t stop. It was like watching Kanye West ruin an award show. You see the tragedy taking place, but you feel helpless.
“Crap. It’s happening again.”
Thank God that the carpet was green, or my nocturnal “pissins” might have left a stain.
I bet the family who lives there now has no idea of heritage I left in their household. Perhaps there still is a tangy linger in the house that they and they don’t know where it’s coming from?
I should go back and warn them that they need to get this particular spot of their carpet cleaned.
I am no longer the victim of my own bodily fluids, but I do talk and eat in my sleep. I have heard from friends that I am quite the narcissistic ladies man and that I’m often incoherent in my sleep talking.
I once ate an entire box of pop tarts, and washed it down with a carton of Schepp’s chocolate milk. Most of the milk went on my shirt, the counters and cabinets, and I discovered chocolate laden paper towels in the refrigerator.
However, sleep talking and eating are easy to get around. If I don’t sleep around people there can be no witnesses to my rambling, and my nocturnal appetites decrease the further I sleep away from the kitchen.
I seemed to have mastered my sleeping these days.
Everything appears to be relatively dry, and the only person around to hear my night monologues is my teddy bear Paul. He’s stood with me through my imperfections, and I have been willing to over look his.
He may have a nose doesn’t beep anymore, a gaping hole by his buttocks, and a head that is about fall off, but he keeps the best secrets. He’s never judged me for my bedtime banter.