Ambien literature.

Look you guys, I have a prescription, okay? I have delayed sleep phase syndrome. It’s a real disorder and not at all made up. It’s been like over a month since I’ve updated, and once that happens it becomes a thing, like a beast, like a terrible chore that just grows larger and larger until it’s nothing again. It is not unlike the infinite folding and unfolding of the universe, maintaining a blog.

Anyway, holy shit I apparently wrote this last night. I don’t remember writing it, but those are my ideas – I recognize them. A sentence or two is from my little notebook where I write down little ideas. So it wasn’t someone else that wrote it. I did. It’s sort of like that trick you men do where you sit on your hand until it falls asleep and then you masturbate with said hand.

To review: It’s like the universe and masturbating with a dead hand, this tiny story I found. The ending could use some work but I’ll leave it exactly as a found it, as an artifact.


Tyson brings this other guy with him when he picks me up for our date. He’s sitting in the backseat drinking PBR’s out of a 12 pack one after the other, like someone eating popcorn.

Turns out we’re going way the fuck out of town to this saloon style bar that is also a hotel. They tell me that interesting things have happened there. Tyson’s friend is named Daniel and I’m Megan and this is mine and Tyson’s third time out.

“I hope you don’t mind if Daniel comes along with us,” Tyson says, but it’s already done, so what would it matter if I minded? The deal is that Daniel is suicidal. It will be good for him to get out of the city into the fresh air, with friends. Tyson tells me all this as though the patient isn’t sitting right there. I think this is just his style.

Daniel doesn’t seem so sad, and I tell him so. He’s got a patchy beard and unblinking, unmoving features, like he has a concussion maybe and he’s tired. “I have addictions,” he says. “I’ve slept with over a thousand women.”

“You must get up very early in the morning,” I tell him.

He looks out the window at pine trees blurring past. “It doesn’t make me happy,” he says.

I tell them all about my cold and its cure. I took 5,000mg of Vitamin C and drank 3 glasses of vegetable juice, plus a shitload of hot tea with honey and lemon, and I used the Nettie pot about 20 goddamn times.

“What’s a nettie pot?” Tyson wants to know.

“It’s like this thing. It’s for irrigating the sinuses. Mine is made of porcelain but they make other kinds. It looks like a Genie’s lamp.”

“I’ve made a woman believe I was a genie,” Daniel says.

“Really?” Tyson says. He can’t believe it, which is appropriate because it’s a fucking joke. This is the first I’ve seen of how stupid Tyson is, and now begins the plotting: how to switch dates?

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