Blurry Eyed, Clear Mind

Here I sit. 3:40 am. Wide awake. I’m not tired in the least bit, but what am I supposed to do, I have 8 o’clock class. So I continue to attempt sleep but to no avail. If there is an affliction known as Sunday Night Insomnia Can’t Knockout or Even Rest Syndrome (SNICKERS) then I must have it. As delicious as that particular syndrome may sound, it surely sucks a great bit of ass. Every Sunday night since second semester has started I have found myself unable to fall asleep before 3:30 am. While I have always prided myself on being able to function on very little sleep, getting 4 hours in a night is just fucked up. I cannot pay attention to my Macroeconomics class on that little sleep. As I lie in my bed last night I calculated my opportunity cost to not sleeping as opposed to sleeping. The numbers are astonishing. Now it can’t possibly be that I am having trouble sleeping just because my love of Economic theory, there must be other factors. For one, it is hard to concentrate with the Three Tenors of Snoring I call my roommates. They are led by the showboating “Pavarotti”. Anyone lucky enough to share a room with him knows that there is not a note that this man has not hit, no sound he has not uttered. When combined with his supporting cast they make some weird music, music the likes of Simon Cowell would be at a loss for words for. Then there are those strange moments of calm; when I seem to be in the eye of a storm. When this happens you can hear the littlest of sounds. Doors opening and closing to the wind, cats meowing, the hum of my computer, and my floor mates engaging in sexual activity (after inter-visitation? FOR SHAME!). It harks back to the days when I watched Unsolved Mysteries. I could take any sound I heard and relate it to how the at-large murderer had made it from New Mexico to my home in Minnesota. Now as a grown-ass man I shouldn’t be afraid that someone from Santa Fe is going to break into my dorm room and murder me, just because I have SNICKERS. I know they are putting more nuts in each bar, but that’s no reason for a killing spree. I think I prefer Sweet Tarts to Spree, but a transcendental trip of murder and milk chocolate is uncalled for. Even if you calculated the opportunity cost of the trip, it’s just not right. What the hell am I talking about? I don’t even know anymore, I think I need to get some more sleep. Here I sit. 3:50am…