Here's what you need to know. I'm not asleep.
Middle-aged. Every time I say that word, I get mad. Not because I'm 45. I'm cool with that - mainly because it's not 46. But middle-aged? That's a constant reminder that statistically I'm as close to being on the other side of the dirt as I am to the moment I was dragged kicking and screaming ass-backwards from my Mother's down there.
Or maybe it was some "beginning-aged" newborn with a chip on his shoulder. Babies are so selfish. It's always "feed me", "change me", "don't try to sell me on Craigslist 'cause that's wrong."
Or, in fairness, it could have been a group of rogue "ending-aged" people who were flat pissed off at us because they finally learned how to set the VCR to record Murder She Wrote, and we said, "Ha-Ha! Jokes on you, old people! We are taking away all the VCRs and selling them at garage sales for $3!"
Why can't I sleeeeeeeeeep?
Oh well. At least I know I can sleep when I'm dead - which according to them that know, will be in about 30 or 40 years....
Providing I don't run with scissors or get a lump in one of my Tapioca bags.