Operation Sleepy Freedom

I think there’s an alien in my room. I think it’s terrorizing me. Yeah, over there, in the corner. See that. That rhythmic, pale green flashing. See it. It’s driving me insane. I’m trying to go to sleep. I want it to go away. Just tell it to go away.

For several hours now, I’ve just lain here, thinking about random shit, adjusting the power on the air conditioner: LOW COOL, getting up to pee, drinking a glass of water, being harassed by signals emitted by a tiny alien in the corner of my room, having to pee again, re-adjusting the power on the air conditioner: MEDIUM COOL, turning onto my left side to avoid the pestering of the alien in the corner, fighting the urge to turn on the lights, realizing that I hate sleeping on my left side, trying to sleep on my face, re-adjusting the power on the air conditioner: HIGH COOL, being satisfied that my down comforter now has a use, and finally, after noticing an especially bright flicker, rising to investigate the alien in the corner.

Attempt 1: I approach quickly, cumbersomely, loudly, probably scaring the alien and thereby launching it into a further state of shock or panic or discord. And ohshit. The floorboards are really loud. I did not know this. Abort mission! I plunge back into my bed. Under the down comforter. It’s warm. Which is nice.

Several minutes pass with no sign of alien movement. The damn flashing continues, though, emerging, emanating from the same damn corner. Damn it. I have to change tactics. I take a second to think. Okay, I have changed tactics. I will crawl. Or slide. Across the floor on my hands and knees. Yes, I will slide. And I will use my down comforter as padding, so as to avoid the creation of noise. Ready.

Attempt 2: I stealthily gather my down comforter up in my arms, only to realize that using a pillow to silence my footsteps would be a far more reasonable solution. I release my comforter in favor of my bottom pillow. (I hope the floor is clean.) The floor is unclean, for no one has ever actually washed it – nor, for that matter, really ever cared about its state of cleanliness in the least.

After acknowledging that clean pillowcases are readily available and that I don’t have to pay for laundry detergent, I proceed onward with my new tactic, expertly dangling my upper body off the side of my bed to place my warm pillow on the dirty floor. Retreating to my bed and swinging my torso in a graceful semi-circle, I plant my legs on the pillow, squashing it. I drop to a crouch and then to my knees. I’m in position.

Looking up from my new, significantly lower, vantage point, I notice that the alien’s light emissions have slowed dramatically. This is unsettling. (Should I continue on? Is the alien dying? Is this a hoax? What would George W. Bush do in a similar situation?) I slide myself forward in the dark, across the floor of my room on a pillow, having learned little from my last failed attempt to capture and/or destroy, a few steps behind the enemy, probably looking like a fool in my bright red and white Tommy Hilfiger boxers, declaring war on the tiny alien that threatens to disturb my precious peace of mind – all the while failing to understand that I could have solved all of this by just closing my damn eyes and maintaining a more regular sleep schedule. 

I continue on.

My elaborately decorated, flowery pillow ship and I glide further across the dirty wooden floor, across uncharted lands, occasionally plowing our way through a particularly smelly heap of socks, shirts, shorts, and underwear; I’m intrepidly battling the elements, the locals, my ever-diminishing morale as the enemy seems to be fading, as the flashes come less frequently, are more muted, hidden. My hope begins to recede. Operation Sleepy Freedom is looking pretty fucking useless right about now. But I don’t care – no. For on the off chance that I can at once locate, surround, and exterminate the predator (or victim), my mind will be at ease, and peace preserved. 

I continue on.

But the heavy buzzing of the high cooling air conditioner further disengages my concentration from the task at hand. I slow. I struggle to maintain focus and begin to lose control of my vehicle. I tumble. Fuck. With a loud thud, shoulder meets wood; balance becomes imbalance; man down, man down, man down; I turn around in time to see the alien scuttle under the radiator.

I’ve scared it off! I win. 

I win! Yes, yes, yes, I win. Do not attempt to tell me otherwise. I don’t appreciate your attempts to tell me otherwise. An alien is an ineffective terrorizer when under a radiator, is it not?

With the knowledge that, finally, the alien’s lights shall no longer be the bane of my sleep, I rise. And now, how gloriously does the floor sink beneath me, objects below shrinking, crumbs of dirt disappearing, losing significance; I’m lifting myself out of here, onto better things, cleaner things, ideas, creativity, bliss, peace, the American Dream, sleep! Settling into my queen-sized bed, I feel utterly confident that the foul little creature will no longer torment me. I am big. It is small. Thus is life: the small ambush the large, but usually run away when threatened. Ha! 

. . .

I can’t sleep. The room is too light. Objects – my desk, my bookshelf that serves as a wardrobe, my electronic drum set, my cell phone – are plainly visible, distracting. Fuck streetlamps, my eyes hurt. Again they are drawn to a rhythmic, pale green flashing in the corner of my room. My body gives chase.

It’s funny. I now know that I am playing a game of cat and mouse with a dying lightning bug. And when I wake up in the morning I will immediately understand that the lightning bug really was no more than a small, harmless, undeniably pathetic insect. But as for now, it as an alien, intent on destroying myself and the wonderfully diverse and wonderful denizens of this great country, and I’m losing.