Good At Sleep, and Other Sexy Qualities

I can’t do much to quiet your anxiety, my lovely reader. I wish I could. I’m just one girl who knows nothing of virology, or how to sell good drugs on the internet. 

But I figure if you’re reading this, you know me. So maybe we can just chat a while. Or. I’ll chat, and you’ll read and maybe like. Crack a smile. Who knows. 

When I’m really afraid, or sad–when I want out of my mind with major urgency–I remember a bit of the novel The Road. Disclaimer–I wouldn’t recommend this book. I wouldn’t recommend this book during the most mentally stable period of your life, least the fuck of all now. 

It is an incredibly grim commentary on human nature, and I really just hated it a bunch. Yet here I am, talking about it. Whatever, I’m a masochist. 

My point is. There’s this one part–a single bit of this godforsaken book that I really like. Our protagonist is musing it up about dreams. He believes that when life is chaos, our minds are kind to us while we’re asleep; we have really beautiful dreams to offset the horror of waking life. 

I don’t know if this is true (I tend to think it’s poetic bullshit) but I like the idea that the mind is on our side. Like, “oh you’re sad and scared? Here’s a dream about that guy you’re missing. As a little treat.”

I’d like a little dream treat. I deserve that, you know?

I don’t give any attention to dreams. They hold no weight, other than maybe how they make us feel when we wake up. But god, wouldn’t it be sweet to wake up feeling all warm and good? We deserve that. 

So, look out for my petition, wherein I will be demanding that all dreams are really nice until further notice.

I’m not really into dreams. I’m an excellent sleeper though. Honestly, one of my sexiest qualities. 

You know what else is sexy, dear reader? (Seamless transition, Allison. Someone should really pay you for this.) Niche passions. I get off on that shit. I think it’s incredibly sexy to care about silly stuff, and bonus sexy if you don’t apologize for it. 

I envy the nerds. 

I am so jealous of people whose stamina never ends when it comes to Those Specific Things. Just never fucking ends. Their Things are always bubbling and brewing in the backs of their minds like sexy little cocktails of minutiae. It’s hot as hell. Get me a glass, I’ll toast to you.

To those whose love for the very specific runs true through their veins, I say rock on. 

Dynamically passionate individuals are the untouchable babes of this world, and though not a hot take, I think it bears repeating. Even if only to make myself all hot and bothered. 

Even as a frequently hot and bothered individual (due the extraordinary imaginative power that brought you here to read today) I will continue to disregard all claims made by those who propagate cold showers. It’s just really unpleasant, and I don’t wanna.

I was told recently that cold showers in the morning can help fight depression, and to that I say, fuck you. 

I’ve done a whole bunch of therapy, dear reader. So whether or not this is sexy, I know that–ehem–temperature, intense exercise, paced breathing and progressive muscle relaxation are all proven to help–ehem–center oneself in the present moment. 

But I just don’t want to. That’s it. Don’t want to. I want to sit here at the kitchen table, and talk shit on my laptop, and pretend someone’s reading along. Can’t I just have that?

I deserve it.

And so do you, my redhot reader. 

All my love.

Al