Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Wednesday, February 04, 2004

10 Past Desperate

This is the third day your divine Ruler has gone without any real sleep the previous night, recalling hours of staring at the bedroom ceiling emotionlessly. Oh yes, the flashbacks to sleeping with various ex’s were bountiful, I can confirm. Yet while yesterday this caused me to be in an utterly intolerant mood and almost injuring Gertie in an email battle, today I have transgressed into a dreamlike state where all is well and the world is shiny and lovely.

I believe it may be the lack of a certain other nocturnal activity to be the cause. Be it that it has now been over two weeks since any sort of horizontal action on my fabulous chaise-lounge, and this is the longest period of time your Ruler has gone without in the ten years he’s been flouncing around the bars with a roguish look in his eye. As my dear Evil Best Friend Declan would say: “My churns are full. I’m backed up. My teeth are practically floating,” but then he’s always had a flowery turn of phrase. Shakespeare, that man. Shakespeare.

One questions whether this snappy mood would transfer to my urge for companionship: I am surprised that I’ve not started rubbing myself up against everyone semi-beautiful on the train. When it comes to sexual congress, I have reached the zen-like state of an Enya video, fully prepared to come into work in a wafty cotton sheet with choral voices about my head. Rather like what I feel today, actually. This is probably to the relief of Impossibly Beautiful Housemate Mark, who I believe sees me as a danger at the best of times, but almost looks pityingly at me in this state of weakened power. I do still hear the sound of a chair being scraped up against his door at night, but now we both know it’s more through habit. Bless.

So, at the core of this is my Wife - I’m missing him horrendously. And not just for the squelchy stuff that may help my slumber, I believe it’s the whole package that’s causing lack of sleep, if you’ll excuse the expression. While we don’t live together, we do spend a great deal of time at each other’s abodes. There isn’t a week gone by where I haven’t spent at least a couple of times turning over in the middle of the night and inhaling his hair – well, there is a lot of it, you see. Thus, to quell the sleepless nights, I’ve taken to sleeping with my Security Wig, a lank patch of locks that are remarkably similar to my sweetheart’s very own. I believe it used to belong to Tina Turner at one point: it says ‘Manufactured in Nutbush’ on the label underneath, and it would explain why there's not a day I wake to find the strutting grandma outside my window yelling that she wants it back while singing - loudly, I may add - about being beyond the Pleasuredome.

Well, tomorrow will be different. The quicksand arrives.

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