No, it's not midnight. In fact, it's a far uglier time of evening.
It's 3:30 AM
Hell, it's not even evening anymore, it's morning. And it's not even proper morning, either. Its some sort of quasi-morning. It's a Rod Serling-time of day, somewhere between shadow and light. On TV, Homer's singing Nena's 99 Luftballoons. Earth must be spinning towards some sort of cosmic wood-chipper. I am hopeful that I can fall back asleep, but I am becoming more and more convinced that, by the time I fall asleep, I'll eventually sleep through my alarm and wake up sometime this afternoon - just a tad later than my usual 7:00 AM start time.
I also realize my last rant may have had a bit too much jalapeno in it, but perhaps it's the wooziness in me talking. And no, dear reader, before you ask, it was not directed towards any particular individual. It was inspired by those fiends of the fiery pit at my cable company. Sure, I've unleashed my fury on those who have crossed me, but the severity of my recommended punishment was more for cathartic release than anything else. And boy did it feel good! Cathartic release usually does.
Anyway, I am feeling unnaturally chipper and high-spirited at this time of night/morning. Time to crawl back between the sheets and dream about naked women who disappear just before it gets interesting.
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