Sleep is a difficult thing for me to acquire. I've never been a great sleeper even before my accident last spring and the events that occurred at the beginning of this school year. Those two things made sleep an even rarer commodity.
I turned on my TV at somewhere around 2:00 a.m. last night when I was unsuccessful at falling asleep. From now on I need to put a towel along the bottom of my door before I do that. My parents are spies. They see light under my door even in the middle of the night. My dad came into my room with his guitar. He plays music in the key of A major because for some reason guitar music in the key of A usually makes me sleepy. I've had musician friends tell me that this is totally crazy and that there's no way it could make a difference as to what key in which music is played in terms of its soporific effect, but it works. I don't know if it works that way for anyone else other than me, but the key definitely has an effect on me. My dad is the very first person to recognize bull manure when I spout it, and even he doesn't argue about the effect of guitar music on me when it's played in the key of A. Last night it was ineffective, though.
So then my mom came into my room. She was starting her annoying habit of rubbing my head to make me get sleepy. I begged her to stop and told my parents that I would be happy to lie in my bed in the dark with no TV, computer, books, music, or movies if they would just leave me alone. My dad said no because I was awake all night last night (which was, incidentally, my parents' fault) and they don't want me to miss more than one consecutive night of sleep. So my mom went to the hard-core sleep-inducing tactic of drawing pictures on my back. I finally gave up fighting them. I tried pretending to be asleep but they can tell if I'm really asleep or not. I can't for the life of me figure out how they can tell. So eventually they bored me to sleep with their guitar playing in the key of A (I can only listen to so much Simon and Garfunkel or music of that genre without being rendered unconscious) and my mom's really lame artwork on my back (I can tell even with the limited sensory receptors in my back that the stuff she says she's drawing would look nothing like is is supposed to look if she had used an actual pencil; the woman can't even draw well enough to play Pictionary). Then I woke up this morning with a horrible barking cough that my dad is calling croup but that I'm not sure he is qualified to diagnose.
So now no one will let me leave the house because I'm "sick." My friend Caitlin is supposed to get back from San Diego this afternoon and is coming to visit. My parents say I can have company but that Caitlin can't spend the night because I can't have friends stay overnight when I'm
"sick." My Uncle Steve is supposed to come here after his office hours to give me an official diagnosis and possibly medication. He's qualified at least on paper to offer a diagnosis. My dad think's he (my dad) is qualified to diagnose my "illness" because he's board-certified in emergency medicine. How many cases of croup does the average E. R. doctor see with patients over the age of five in an E. R.? If your answer is "zero," "none," or even "not many," you receive credit for having provided a correct answer. I hope my uncle doesn't force me to have an injection. Though I'm not actually "sick," I don't feel great enough to run away from people with syringes today. I let my dad give me an flu shot on December 24. One injection per kunar month is my absolute maximum acceptable quota if I'm not in a hospital, where I have no choice but to tolerate more.
My Aunt Victoria's super-sleuthing skills have come to be useful again. She was able to ferret out that this creepy kid named Justin whose father is a cowboy acquaintance of my Uncle Ralph was the one who made disgusting tweets on my computer. My dad said we can't go to their house again if Justin is there. My Uncle Ralph said my dad doesn't have to worry because Justin won't be there. Justin probably needs counseling or something. I hope he doesn't grow up to be a sex offender. I still don't know exactly what was in the tweets that were deleted, but apparently it was incredibly disgusting. everyone thinks my dad was really stupid for thinking I was the author.
Even though I enjoy seeing him in trouble, I'm glad my brother didn't do it. It would have made me feel sad if he did something so gross solely for the purpose of getting me into trouble.