I'm Tired of Waking Up Tired...

As most of you know, I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since about late 1995. I’m not exactly sure why this is the case. I’m not one of those stress bag insomniac people, in fact I’m about as chilled out as mango sorbet (and twice as tasty). It’s not that I haven’t had decent sleeps, because I have, but moreso that I can’t remember an extended time where I had numerous good sleeps in a row. The fact of the matter is that my mind hates my body. It’s the only plausible explanation. I drag my ass into bed and then my mind is like, "Oh, so you think your going to sleep eh? Over my dead body." (Even my anthropomorphized brain speaks Canadian eh?) In any case, inevitably I end up arriving at work dreaming about how I might squeeze in a nap after work. This is no way to approach the day.

And to make matters worse, on the way to work, the buses mock me. They thunder and smoke around me in all their jangling, acid-trip of colour and chrome, and it makes my head hurt just to look at them. But the worst part is that half of them are made by the "Bedford" company. So there I am, a hazy mess, lusting for an REM sleep cycle, and there, spelled out in oversized chrome letters, on the fronts of all the buses is the very statement of my desires: Bed Ford. I can hear the buses jibing me. Go to Bed, Ford. Don’t you wish you were in Bed, Ford? I wish it were just an undeniable imperative. A command direct from the bus-walla: Bed Ford. Yes sir. Why aren’t you at work? The bus told me to go to bed.

Ok, that’s ridiculous. More so even if you don’t know that my last name is Ford.

But it reminds me of the ad campaign on the city buses back in Fredericton when we were doing our undergrad. It was called WHAM advertising, but if the ad space on the front of the bus was still vacant, it just said Wham. I always thought that it would be hilarious if you were hit by a bus and the last thing you saw was "WHAM" in big yellow letters. Well, the getting hit by the bus part wouldn’t be so hilarious, but the onomatopoeic poetic justice would be tough not to look back on and laugh… well… if you survived.