I love sleeping. An action figure of me would really be an inaction figure, with accessories sold separately: bed, couch, book, wine glass, cat.
Last night, in the middle of the night, I awoke at 2 a.m. and snuggled into my covers, savoring the darkness, the quiet and the prospect of *five* more hours to sleep. What bliss!
Then I heard it: the soothing, plaintive cry of a fog horn. Perfect.
I hate getting up in the morning, but the noises of the building and the street -- and the insistence of my cat Vesper -- lull me into awareness bit by bit.
Cars start motoring by beneath my window; birds call.
The neighbor across the hall, a cop on the night shift, returns home, closing the front metal gate behind him. The girl upstairs, who works downtown, leaves shortly after he returns; the garage door opens.
My cat Vesper jumps on the bed and starts pawing my arm or whatever appendage he can locate.
My alarm sounds with the song "You Sexy Thing" from the Me, Myself and I soundtrack.
Yeah, I really can't complain.