Eighteen Wheels of Justice!

Time to go to sleep or time not to go to sleep? That is the question.

They (scientists) say that if you fall asleep in less than five minutes, then you are too tired. On the flip side, however, if it takes more than fifteen minutes to visit the sandman, then you aren't tired enough. So, I guess there is a magic window of ten minutes when you should be falling off to dreamland. I get stage fright, and if I think about it, then it takes me a long time to process all of the nervous energy left in my brain.

When my head hits the pillow, my brain is busy with thoughts surging through my synapses. Maybe I need to meditate, or do yoga, or eat more fruit. Maybe all three. Whatever is happening, though, most nights I'm tossing and turning thinking about recent events in my life, my future self the way I would want if I could control events, and movie stunts. Occasionally, a good idea for a blog post will rear its elusive head and I then dictate it in my mind.

I keep a sharpie and a box of index cards on my night stand for just such an instance. Take last night for example. I'm sifting through my myriad thoughts and dreams when a perfect little idea pops into my mind. I start dictating, brilliant word for brilliant word. I get up to write it down. My hand squeezes the lamp on, and I squint at the bright light; it burns my eyes which are now accustomed to the dark. I can't see a thing without my glasses, so I fumble for those, too.

Great, now I'm awake and must continue my genius train of thought. Fortunately, I'm on it at the moment, so I keep going. Oh, man, this is so good. And funny! Maybe a little thought provoking? I can't believe my luck. Rarely do I have the presence of mind to capture these thoughts when I'm halfway into the sleepy times.

But as I'm finishing my thoughts, I look at the wall of books just to the side of my bed. It seems a little odd. The books are flying by in a blur, like a forest of trees as you whiz past them in a car. I'm no longer writing down words with my sharpie. I look at my hands and they are clutching the grated walkway on top of a tanker being hauled at seventy miles per hour by a semi truck.

Wind is whipping my bed head hair and as I look back, I see two sinister looking European gangsters in bad suits charging after me with tire irons. I know now what I need to do, and that is jump through the windshield of the cab, knock out the driver, shake the goons up top loose, and drive to Puerto Vallarta before the generalissimo invades the Mazatlan.

My index cards only contained my brilliant essay in my dream. When I awoke in the a.m., it was too late. Only the title remained.