I guess the reason that sleep is so important to me is that during most of my childhood, I was a hardcore insomniac. Coupled with the usual teenage angst, I happened to be unfortunate enough to (attempt to) sleep in a bedroom whose windows faced Winnetka Ave., a freeway exit in Woodland Hills, CA, and a street that was travelled upon ALL THE FUCKING TIME, ALL NIGHT LONG, WITH CARS SHINING THEIR EVIL DEATH RAYS OF LIGHT INTO MY SKULL CEASELESSLY. Anyway, you get the idea.

So, after hours and hours of trying to solve math problems in my head, freaking out about my everday high-stress teenhood, pondering questions of deep cosmology and of course, rampant masturbation, I would generally drift off at about 5:45AM. And generally, right around 5:46 or 5:47, the first birds would start to chirp right outside my oh-so-thin fucking window. Most people associate the chirping of birds in the morning with new beginnings, a fresh new day, a slate washed clean by the languid caress of sleep. But at that time, the birds were a sick mockery of newness, the reminder that I, alone in the universe, had been cheated of my sacred solace. And then my day began...

Luckily, I have overcome this hellish insomnia. But once in awhile, at the perfectly evil moment, right when I'm drifting off into sleep that I REALLY need, just as my thoughts begin to merge into dream, the phone rings, or the cat whines to be let in, or someone knocks on the door, or...well, you get it. Perfectly inocuous things, but timed in an evil fashion, such that you wonder...what the FUCK?!? Who weaves the skeins of Fate, and how do these bastards know that very crucial moment when I relinquish consciousness?