It's 12:28 A.M, and I am blogging. I am not drunk. I am not high. I have not taken any unnecessary cough medicine. And yet I am blogging. How very very sad. It's been like two hours since my last blog. Maybe I shall save this one as a draft and post it tomorrow so I don't look like such a loser. But then I will have to delete this paragraph, and I worked so very hard on it. So this entry stays, a tribute to my night-owlry.
I am no stranger to the night. Seriously, I'm like a freaking vampire. Or a werewolf, though I like to think of myself as considerably less hairy than that. Ever since I was a teeny tiny baby and my parents would sit up and stare at my wide-open eyes, I have needed very little sleep. It's a proven fact, along with my hatred of Rent and my love of high heels. (My very favorite pair of shoes are red polka dot heels that are too high for any human being to ever actually wear. Try navigating Times Sqaure in them. My legs ached for weeks.)
So I guess you're wondering what I actually DO while I stay up and wait for the sun to rise so I can return to my coffin and wait it out till sunset. Well, that's easy! I read. I write. I surf the net. And, obviously, I blog. I never actually get tired, I just go to sleep when I run out of things to do. I drink massive amounts of blue Powerade. (And if you've never had blue Powerade get up and get some RIGHT NOW.) Come to think of it, the sugar in those bad boys might be the reason I don't fall asleep till five in the morning. Trust me, I think of plenty of things to do in the middle of the night. It's like I'm teetering on the edge of being bipolar, except I've never passed out on the floor in Costco or called someone in the middle of the night. Since someone out there is bound to take that the wrong way, let me point out that I was KIDDING about the bipolar thing. No need to call Bellevue just yet.
Well, I've run out of things to talk about. I think now I'm gonna go watch Gypsy. The original one, aka the better one. (And Rosalind Russell was SO a good Rose!)