As many of you already know, I'm really good at a lot of things. I've displayed the tenacity to continue living with my mother literally years after most of my piers threw in the towel. I can pass for both Jewish and gay. And I'm especially skilled at offending Chinamen. One area in which I've earned a "Needs Improvement" mark, however, is that of sleep. I am terrible at sleeping.
As a result, the guy who I get my mescaline from recommended that I try what's known as a "sleep study". In short, I spend the night at the hospital while various biological rhythms and outputs (I'll try my darndest not to fart and/or ejaculate) are carefully measured by science. The results will hopefully allow my doctor to find the magical combination of medication, lifestyle change, and, hopefully, blowjobs that will turn me into a healthy sleeper.
Do you think I jest? Not this time. Except for the mescaline part. I made that up. He actually sells me roofies. Anyway, as this evening progresses I will keep you, my loyal fan base, updated using a little trick called live-blogging. So check back periodically throughout the evening to learn more about my experience.
Every experiment, of course, requires a control. To satisfy this necessity, here is a photograph of me, before the sleep study, very skillfully not sleeping. Let's see how things progress as the afternoon gives way to evening and as those roofies I told you about start to kick in.
I was ushered into the sleep lab by a short, friendly gentleman who did not speak English. His enthused mumbles had a hint of Greek. Perhaps Czech? Regardless of his mysterious mother tongue, my new friend aggressively gesture toward some forms lying on a desk that I was clearly meant to fill out. The first piece of paper I looked at was completely indecipherable. I've been here 3 minutes and I already have no idea what's going on.
Should I point out on the figure where the foreign man touched me?
After stumbling through this paperwork like a legally blind kid trying to luck his way through the SATs, I was escorted down a deserted hallway toward my sleeping quarters. It was upon seeing the sign on this door that I knew my evening was starting to look up.
Berkshire Medical Center knows how to PAR-TAY!
The aggressively friendly “Nurse Helen” just informed me that once I'm “wired up”, I’ll have to call someone via intercom to unhook me any time I need to get up. Looks like I’ll be going to bed thirsty tonight. No worries, though, because I don’t have to get out of bed in order to have a some special Andrew time. I'll just take a quick glance around to make sure no one is watching and…OH CRAP!
It appears that Nurse Helen is a bit of a peeping Tom. Well I hope she enjoys the show, because this train is leaving the ol' station.
DING DING DING! Oh Nurse Helen, be a doll and fetch Andrew a fresh loin shammy. This old one has grown coarse. And while you're at it, perhaps a quick neck rub?
And would it kill you to smile a little?
Well I certainly learned one thing tonight. Bug Nurse Helen enough and she's bound to wire you up like a Jihadist on his big day.
It's like the old song goes, "The eye bone is wired to the leg bone, the nose hole is stapled to the mainframe..." and so on. Good times. Well, now that I am half machine, I'm off to enjoy the slumber that only us bionic types can experience. I'm guessing it'll be 8 hours of that mid 1980s DOS prompt blinking incessantly in my internal dreamscape. G'night, kids. And if I have trouble waking up, just unplug me for 30 seconds, plug me back in, and wait for the red light to turn green. I'll be right as rain.
After about 17 minutes of tortured sleep, during which I had a dream about trying to convince my father and sister that 9/11 was an inside job, the sleep study is complete. Good old Nurse Helen, as chipper as a meth head on payday, unplugged my Terminator wires and left me drowsy, wet, and covered in robot jizz. But hey, at least now I'm really, really good at sleep.