I keep a notepad and pen next to my bed, just in case I wake up in the middle of the night with some profound thought that I think should be shared with the world. I do this a lot. My notepad is full of nocturnal scribblings. The problem is, roughly two-thirds of those freakin' scribblings are either illegible or unintelligible.
It's a crying shame, really, because I like to think I'm pretty intellectually gifted at 4 a.m. The world will never know, I guess.
Last night's musings, though largely unreadable, do consist of a few sentence fragments I was able to decipher, and I was eventually able to remember what the hell it was that was bouncing around my skull when I woke up to pee at 3:23 a.m. (or so I scribbled in the margins).
Last night, apparently, my fevered mind was in deep thought about shower cleaner. . . and Iraq. It makes sense, I suppose, because before I went to bed last night, I spritzed my shower and toilet with Scrubbing Bubbles With Bleach and then logged online quick to see what was new with Healing Iraq. Maybe the Scrubbing Bubbles fumes were playing with my olfactory nerves and eating away very specific areas of my brain but, for whatever reason, my brain conjured the following incomplete paragraph last night at 3:23 a.m.:
"Shower being clean is important. . . bleach works. . . kind of like Iraq, but not really. . . a good toilet cleaner would be like Saddam. . . my toilet has been Saddamized."
I'm sure there's something very important in there somewhere. That's the problem with hazy, half-awake thinking: all your neurons are still firing all at once, almost as if you're still in a dream-like state, and all your conscious cognitive functions are dedicated to trying to get you to shuffle successfully to the bathroom to relieve yourself.
Once you get to the toilet, with your arm braced against the wall (this only applies to males, and for a very select few females), your mind just doesn't care what kind of ancillary musings may be jostling for most-favored status. Therefore, you get a Saddamized toilet, and it makes perfect sense, so you write it down and drift back into slumber thinking you're a brilliant punster, when in fact you're really not.
Posted by Ryan at March 2, 2004 10:38 AM
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