Why I’m Writing At 3:15 AM

(The following is a new kind of experimental writing called “trying to get through a blog entry in less that 4000 words so that I can actually write more than 2 of these in a year.”)


As most of you who are acquainted with me know, I am an insomniac. Unfortunately, I am not the fun kind of insomniac, who stays up going strong for hours on end, shot gunning beers and brawling with all those who cross my path before finally petering out at 2 or 3 in the morning. I am the boring kind of insomniac, who tends to nod off in front of the television (or at the bar, or at a friends house) no later than 10:30 on a weeknight, and 10:45 on a weekend. But I’m also the creepy kind of insomniac, who wakes up like clockwork, at 3:15 AM, while virtually every single person that I know and love in the world, even those on the west coast, are sound asleep. To paraphrase Jeneen, few things are right with the world when you are awake at 3:15 AM.


What does one do when it’s 3:15 AM and you’re the only person in the entire world who is awake, you may ask? When I was younger, and the world was a simpler place, subterfuge was key. I would sneak out of my bedroom, careful not to wake my father, whose first instinct would be to pull out his trusty Baretta and unleash a barrage of bullets into the darkness, not caring whether it struck friend or foe or first born child. (Every white middle class kid has woken up to unexplained gunshots that seem to emanate from somewhere inside their own house at least once in their life, right? Right?!?)


But now I don’t live in my parents house. Since I own a house, and don’t really have any reason to sneak around anymore, much of the charm and romance of insomnia has worn off. Of course, with a cell phone and the ability to lie convincingly, there is no limit to the level of havoc that I can wreak on friends and loved ones when I am awake at this hour. But most of you are safe, except for my favorite target, who is, of course, my poor, long suffering wife. There she lies, so peaceful, so innocent, so unsuspecting of the fact that her continued peaceful sleep depends solely on my whim. Once, when we were young and in love, waking her is the middle of the night would bet me with only mind annoyance, if not outright amusement, and even gratitude for the chance to spend an occasional stolen hour together. But now, while we are still both in love, neither of us are young, and even my most gentle attempt to wake her up is met with a “You’re a fucking asshole” or “Why can’t you please please please just let me sleep for one night?”


Okay, I’ll \let her sleep…for now.


The bedroom window in my old apartment had a window, which overlooked a lake, and gave a wide open view of the night sky. It was a beautiful view, and the moon’s illumination of the lake gave a very clear picture of what went on outside my window. Occasionally, during a late night sojourn through the window, I’d spy someone walking a dog, or sneaking out for a cigarette. Once, however, I saw a old man climb the fence between the my apartment and the lake. After he climbed over, he left a white plastic hanger on the black iron fence to mark his passing, and then disappeared into the lake with a gentle splash. It was so surreal that I thought I dreamed it, but the hangar was still there the next morning, and due to the laziness of myself and the rest of the tenants, remained all through the winter and even the following spring, and for all I know, remains there to this day. As for the man? I’ll probably never really know, but if they ever dredge the bottom of that rancid lake, they’ll probably find that drowned dead vagrant having sunken into the muck at the bottom.


Now my bedroom window overlooks at a parking lot, and I’m lucky to see so much as a stray cat.

Stay Tuned For Part 2 - Late Night Television Makes You Stupid, and Part3 - The Internet Is An Inescapable Pit of Despair.