I rise early again today, wholly against my will.
I slept so well that I cannot remember how I got into bed. Beneath the sheets, I find that I am almost entirely dressed in yesterday’s clothes. My toothbrush is in bed with me; I wonder if I used it. Under my pillow I discover a list, in my handwriting, on the back of some scrap paper: 17 McGuffins. It would seem that at some point during the night, I decided to prepare for a career as mystery novelist.
I would have kept sleeping until noon, lulled by the steady thrum of rain on my roof, had I not been woken by the plip-plip-plip of rain leaking through my roof. Terrific. And typhoon season is just beginning.
Decide to go to work early. Stop off at the breakfast shop on the way, planning to read the paper. There is, however, no news at all in today’s paper. The issue is entirely devoted to coverage of the World Cup, a meaningless sporting event that hasn’t even started yet.
I’m reduced to reading the lunar prophecy: “It’s a bad day for funerals.” Undoubtedly true.
“It’s a good day for breaking ground for construction and repairing warehouses.” Hmmm. Perhaps I should have tried to repair the roof after all; but I feared the wind and rain would sweep me to my death. The weather report beneath the lunar prophecy predicts thunderstorms in Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Shanghai, but not in Beijing, where they have that sort of thing licked.
One article does catch my eye: “Rowdy fan behavior may be triggered by feelings of inadequacy.” I stop reading after the first sentence. This is hardly news, especially to the hundreds of twenty-something Canadian women who are tonight heading to Saints & Sinners, Tavern Premier, or The Brass Monkey to feign enthusiasm for soccer beside the cream of Taipei’s expatriate male crop—and when called upon, administer comfort to them. Girls are getting lucky this weekend!
I slept so well that I cannot remember how I got into bed. Beneath the sheets, I find that I am almost entirely dressed in yesterday’s clothes. My toothbrush is in bed with me; I wonder if I used it. Under my pillow I discover a list, in my handwriting, on the back of some scrap paper: 17 McGuffins. It would seem that at some point during the night, I decided to prepare for a career as mystery novelist.
I would have kept sleeping until noon, lulled by the steady thrum of rain on my roof, had I not been woken by the plip-plip-plip of rain leaking through my roof. Terrific. And typhoon season is just beginning.
Decide to go to work early. Stop off at the breakfast shop on the way, planning to read the paper. There is, however, no news at all in today’s paper. The issue is entirely devoted to coverage of the World Cup, a meaningless sporting event that hasn’t even started yet.
I’m reduced to reading the lunar prophecy: “It’s a bad day for funerals.” Undoubtedly true.
“It’s a good day for breaking ground for construction and repairing warehouses.” Hmmm. Perhaps I should have tried to repair the roof after all; but I feared the wind and rain would sweep me to my death. The weather report beneath the lunar prophecy predicts thunderstorms in Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Shanghai, but not in Beijing, where they have that sort of thing licked.
One article does catch my eye: “Rowdy fan behavior may be triggered by feelings of inadequacy.” I stop reading after the first sentence. This is hardly news, especially to the hundreds of twenty-something Canadian women who are tonight heading to Saints & Sinners, Tavern Premier, or The Brass Monkey to feign enthusiasm for soccer beside the cream of Taipei’s expatriate male crop—and when called upon, administer comfort to them. Girls are getting lucky this weekend!
posted by badhummus at 7:22 PM
1 Comments:
I read your paragraphs on sleep over and over again...enthralled...it's like looking at porn. What is that kind of sleep like? Will I ever know it again?
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