TIRED.

I live my life constantly breathing in the indefatigably putrid breath of insomnia.  Insomnia rarely brushes its teeth.  Sometimes, it randomly becomes vain and eats a Wint-o-green lifesaver, which provides an equally strong but slightly better scent.  This usually allows for an hour or two of lucid sleep near dawn, sleep so light it can be considered a deep trance.  Since November of 2006, I have exceeded the critical mark of eight hours of sleep in one night a total of nine times (all before last September).  Over 80 percent of the time I don't even make six hours.  Around 40 percent of the nights I sleep under 4 and a half hours.  And about 30 percent of the nights I sleep 2 hours or less.

During the day, sleeping is impossible.  

So when people complain about how they get six hours every night, I balk.  

But as much as I hate insomnia, I love it also.  It has become an integral part of my life.  It gives me a wide array of valid complaints at the tip of my tongue for any situation dry in conversation ("I was up until 4 am last night!" "I'm tired" etc.).  Furthermore, my best essays come from 2 in the morning.  My imagination is on full force during the middle of the night.  While other people sleep, I plot ways to achieve world domination.

Losers.