The Bane Of The Insomniac
One member wrote it, but Im sure we all feel this way.
The insomniac's worst enemy... sleeping pills.
You've been awake for four days. You've been on your computer for 10 hours, desperately messaging everyone on your contact
lists, begging them to provide you with either entertainment, or a sure method for sleep. Then one of them happily
suggests, "Sleeping pills, you fucking dumbass!" Cursing aside, you decide that maybe your trusted friend's advice isn't
so... wait! Drugs! Drugs are ba... ah, but sleep. Fuck insomnia, you're going to Wal-Mart.
When you arrive at Wal-Mart, it's midnight. The only two clerks there look surprisingly like those crack addicts you saw on
the PBS special.. you know, the one you watched twice earlier that day. But you can't judge a book by its cover. So you
approach the man wearing the blue vest. He's got a beard longer than the longest johnson you've ever seen, and he looks
like a dirt poor art student out of Paris. "Hello," you greet him, which is met with the instant reply of, "Manager's in
the rug section."
"Is this one of those automated jobs?" you wonder. Aloud, you say, "I'm just looking for sleeping pills."
The instant reply becomes, "Talk to the manager."
You begin to think less than polite things about this crack junkie's mother.
"Alright.. where's the rug section?"
"Ask the manager."
After this debacle of customer service, you strike out on your own, armed only with car keys and a two day hangover. Okay,
maybe the two day hangover isn't much to be armed with, unless you're in a pissy mood. After carefully searching the entire
store, you come to the reluctant conclusion that this store has no rug section. Which confounds you to no end. Retracing
your steps, you find yourself again at the front of the store. What's this? The bearded junkie is gone, to be replaced by
a man you lovingly refer to in your head as Scarecrow Man. Tall, lanky, too-long hair, you'd expect a Discman to be on his
belt.
"Excuse me?" you say.
"Yeah?" he replies.
"I'm looking for some sleeping pills."
"Yeah?" he replies.
"Yeah, sleeping pills," you say. "Do you know where they are?"
"Yeah?" he replies.
You steadily curse him, screaming loud and long in his face, to which he meets you with the aloof, calm reply of, "Yeah?"
In a rage, you stalk off, promising that if you find the oft-rumored 'boot up your ass' section, you're going to drag him
into it.
Finally, like a beacon from God above, the pharmacy appears. Why didn't your tired brain think of this? Probably a result
of that NBC Nightly News series you watched on corrupt pharmacies handing out illegal drugs in normal bottles. You're not
here for a helping of cocaine, after all. You slowly think that maybe it's so fresh on your mind because you watched all
three parts without sleeping in between. Yeah, that's it.
Taking the first box that grabs the attention of your sleep deprived, drunken senses, you read the label.
"Wait," you say suddenly. "Birth defects? Nose bleeds? Migraines? Gout? Jesus, what do I need this for? I could hit
myself in the groin with a hammer for free!"
You move on. After a long and tiring search, you find a box which has side effects suitable to you. Lung cancer, dry
mouth, and erectile dysfunction (none of these things matter when you're asleep, after all). Making your way to the
counter, you proudly plop the box down, along with your $20 bill. After a long moment of staring at the pills and the money
with a stupid look on your face, you glance up, to see that Scarecrow Man is helming this counter, and the lights are on but
nobody's home. Deciding that Scarecrow Man isn't night security, you pick up the $20 bill. When there's no reaction, you
pick up the bottle of pills. After careful deliberation, you pick up your feet and flee the scene. On the way out, the
bearded automoton calls out, "Have a nice night."
Arriving at home with a kick of adrenaline, you stare at the sleeping pills, and say, "What did I get these for? I'm not
even tired!" Ten minutes later, you sit on the couch, wearing boxers and your Spiderman shirt on, with a pack of half eaten
Oreos in your lap, watching an infomercial on George Foreman's grill. Gosh, that George Foreman. Gets you every time.
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