Course Overload #8: "A Bedtime Story"

I should have known something was wrong when the school newspaper meetings were moved from 7:30 p.m. on Mondays to 3 a.m. Tuesday mornings. But, I assumed it was just normal college behavior and went on with my day. I was beginning to get suspicious when I was asked to read six of Hemmingway’s best novels in one night. I could do it; I’d just have to stay up all night reading. Besides, it takes more than a few classic novels to stop ME. But the night they wouldn’t let me go home… that’s when I knew. That’s when I knew that I was part of some bizarre conspiracy to measure the effects of long term sleep depravation on short young men with glasses.

I know it sounds too weird to be true, but everything becomes so clear when you haven’t slept for 20 hours straight and you’ve had four Pepsis in the last hour just to stay awake.

The night it all came together in my mind was a night like any other. The sky was black with rain clouds, it was beginning to get deathly cold, and the wind whistled through the trees, as if mocking me for my lack of a jacket. It was a nice night, really. I had stayed up until 5 a.m. the night before, finishing a very important paper on why the government abducts kids who get high scores on arcade games for my Neurotic Paranoia and Sleep Depravation in Young Males class. I was finished for the day and was about to go home when I saw my friend Meg walk by. We struck up a conversation and she suggested that we go out for ice cream. I knew I shouldn’t, because I still had to read another three or four novels that night, and I had a big test in my African American authors class the next day. I decided to politely decline.

“Sure! Let’s go!” I said.

So there I was at Denny’s. Our waitress promptly handed us our menus. I probably should have known there was something wrong when I saw she was wearing a black suit and sunglasses, but I was concentrating on the ice cream I was about to order. I opted for the Oreo Blender Blast, in hopes that the caffeine in the chocolate would keep me awake long enough to finish the conversation I was having.

In a few minutes, the waitress returned with our ice cream. She turned around to leave, but quickly turned back and tapped my shoulder. “I almost forgot. Would you like sprinkles on that?” she asked.

“Sure,” I replied.

“And top secret government tracking drug for the sleep depravation in short guys with glasses experiment?”

“What?!” I exclaimed. This last topping had me slightly worried.

“It tastes like gummi bears.”

“Well…okay then.” I watched as the waitress sprinkled a strange green substance in my glass. Then she walked away cautiously and stared at us from behind a column. I was having doubts about eating the ice cream now. Perhaps “secret government tracking drug” was some sort of cute name Denny’s used for a perfectly mundane topping, much like how McDonald’s has their the happy meals. But then again, “secret government tracking drug” is just a little less inciting than “happy meal.” I was beginning to figure it all out; I know it sounds too weird to be true, but everything becomes so clear when you haven’t slept for 67 hours straight and you’ve taken to rubbing salt in your eyes just to stay awake. I decided that I wasn’t going to eat the ice cream, no matter what.

It was delicious.

Later on, I dropped Meg off back at her dorm. Pulling out of the college, I figured that if I hurried, I’d make it home by midnight, and I’d have the whole night to study. I’d lose some sleep, but I could just make it up later when I didn’t have as much homework. But as I was about to turn onto my exit, all I saw were those silly orange traffic cones blocking it, and suspicious looking men in back suits and neon orange safety vests. They were all wearing sunglasses at night, so they’d done an awful job of blocking the exit, but I still couldn’t get on the highway.

“It’s all right,” I said. “The highway might be closed, but I’ll just take the back roads.”

“No you won’t,” said one of the men who was suddenly standing next to my car.

“Why not?” I inquired, more than a little freaked out that there was a big scary man hovering over me in the dark.

“Because it’s not just the highway that’s closed, it’s the entire county.” With that, I began to cry.

And that’s when I knew. That’s when I knew they were doing it all on purpose. But no time to worry about that, I had to get back to the college and see if I couldn’t stow away in a friend’s dorm for the night.

A half hour later, I found myself in a dorm, my eyelids screaming for me to shut them already. “I guess I’ll be sleeping in your roommate’s bed tonight,” I said.

“No, she’s coming back eventually. You’ll be sleeping at the bottom of my bed.”

“Oh, well that doesn’t sound so bad,” I replied.

“…with all the other people who got stuck when they closed the county.”

The door flew open and in marched more than 20 short guys with glasses. I stared at them as they came in; they all had bags under their eyes and looked as if they hadn’t rested in weeks. Most of us had figured it out by then; I know it sounds too weird to be true, but everything becomes so clear when you haven’t slept for 133 hours straight and you’ve taken to setting your hair on fire just to stay awake.

“At least I’m safe here with you,” I said to my friend.

“Of course you are,” she replied. “Now you relax and I’ll bring you a nice jug of black coffee to help you get to sleep.”

“But wait a minute! Doesn’t coffee keep you…?!”

“Exactly,” she said, putting on her dark glasses.

“How could you?” I yelled.

“They promised me a room in Wonka Hall.”

A single highly-caffeinated tear rolled slowly down my cheek.

Course Overload #4: "Snooze Blues"

Does anyone out there remember sleep? It was good, if memory serves. I seem to recall it involving something known as a “bed” and another thing called a “blanket.” I also have memories of a third object, called “handcuffs,” but I don’t quite remember what they do.

I also know about something called a “nap.” Well, I know what the word “nap” means, in theory, but I don’t really have an experience to connect with the word. The last time I took a nap was sometime in 2001, and even then, it was because I was run over by a beer truck on the way to class. All I remember is seeing a conspicuously insect-free place high above the clouds, filled with angels playing Playstation games. Then I saw a man with a long gray beard and a shining white robe. He took one look at me and started laughing. The old man gave me a thumbs down gesture, snapped his fingers, and the next thing I remember is limping to English 101 with approximately 20 pounds of extra steel embedded in my body. I guess the professor smelled the alcohol on me from the beer truck accident, and I spent the next 10 hours in the dean’s office trying to explain that I wasn’t drunk; I smelled like beer because an old man in the sky made me take a nap.

By now I’ll bet you’re wondering why I don’t get much sleep. The answer is quite simple: I’m in college now, so I know better. Studies have shown that as we grow older, our bodies need more sleep. However, millions of people from around the globe have died in their sleep, thus it’s only logical to conclude that too much sleep kills you. In fact, sleep is the second leading cause of death among college age adults, the first being death. All college professors know this, and in a genuinely heroic attempt to keep us college students alive, they give us lots of things to keep us occupied during those lonely nighttime hours.

I am very grateful to my professors for doing me such an admirable service. After all, the youth of today are tomorrow’s leaders, so it would be wise to make sure some of us stay alive. Otherwise, children in the future will have a very hard time playing “Follow the Leader.” The game will simply be reduced to “Follow.”

Yet, as great as living is, sometimes I wish sleep wasn’t so deadly. Often, after staying up well past 14 or 15 o’clock, my body begins to malfunction. For example, the sleep depravation has begun to affect my memory. I will honestly not remember writing this, and when I see it on this blog, I will be very excited that I wrote an article. About half way through, I will forget who wrote it, look back at the author, and become excited all over again. This process will repeat itself until someone takes the PC away from me or I have to use the bathroom. Hopefully, I won’t look for something to read while I’m in there, or the vicious cycle will start all over again.

Unfortunately, I’m a commuter, and sleep deprivation affects my driving skills. For example, I often set my cruise control and go to sleep on the way to school. I just let my Taurus bounce off the guard rails for 28 miles until I get to school, like those bumpers they set up for little kids’ birthday parties in bowling alleys. This usually works pretty well, but every once in a while I’ll wake up in a ditch somewhere in Maryland. When this happens, I turn the car around in the opposite direction I was going, turn on cruise control again and go back to sleep.

I’ve also discovered another problem: No sleep impairs my judgment. One time, I thought it would be a pretty good joke if I called the fire department and told them that my grandmother’s cat was stuck in a tree and that they needed to hurry over before she attempted to help him down with her shotgun. I also said the cat was on fire. And full of dynamite. So, a few minutes later, 37 firemen arrived and dashed from the fire truck, waving axes and fire hoses high above their heads. I ran up to them with a look of terror in my eyes, put my hand on the fire chief’s shoulder, and exclaimed, “Tag! You’re it!” About 150 hours of community service have since shown me the error of my ways, so I can honestly guarantee that I’d never do something like that ever again. Oh, while I’m on the subject of firemen, did you know that the fines for calling in a fake emergency are doubled if you do it more than once?

My attention span has been also affected. Sometimes, I’ll start a sentence and never

And other times, I startt mizspeling thinngz. When it gets really bad, I just begin to speak in gibberish. This makes it very difficult for my flapjacks to buy their pants. But that made me realize that I should donate all of my salt to the furtive monkey dishwasher. I hear it's amazing when the purple stuffed worm in flap jaw space does a raw blink on Hari-kiri Rock. I need scissors! 61!

You know, as deadly as they are, I’m starting to think that I should just take my chances with this whole “nap” thing.