Someone – who shall remain nameless – was giving me shite today about needing my beauty sleep (there ain’t enough hours in the day). Naturally, my first response was to note my age. Unfortunately this cat had me by nearly three years in the age department so no joy.
As always, my fallback position is this:
I have always been sleepy. The day I was born I got my head and one arm out and yawned expansively. As I understand it, once the doctor and my mother finally managed to get me out of the womb and stopped smacking me around I promptly went to sleep and didn’t wake up until some evil bastard told me it was time to go wake up and go to kindergarten.
What a way to ruin a good nap.
Swine.
After that, I never missed a chance to claim sleep as my one and only hobby until sometime in high school when folks stopped asking what your damned hobby was. Thank God for small favors.
As it is, I need my sleep. On a good day eight hours will suffice; most times I need nine or ten. Without that how can I manage to pretend all of you soft bags of wasted protoplasm are worthy of my limited attentions?