I reiterate the thesis of my previous post,which was, in essence, that Walmart is quite possibly the anti-Christ. At this point I cannot give more details as to my reasons for speaking out so strongly, as even under the relative anonymity of this blog, and though the situation in question does not pertain directly to me, I cannot risk jeopardizing any possible resolution that may be in the works by sharing details. If this situation changes and I am at liberty to disclose specifics of the matter, I will waste no time in giving you full information supporting my stance.
It goes without saying, of course, that you are free to disagree with me and to furnish your entire house, stock your pantry, fill your bathroom, laundry room, backyard, and what ever other segment of your abode or your life with items purchased from Walmart and we can still be friends and colleagues. You can have a Sam Walton shrine in your living room, bedroom, bathroom, or front yard, and I would totally defend your right to do so, while I might clandestinely question your sanity ever so slightly. For that matter, you may have philosophical opposition to the general practices of the late Sam Walton and his minions yet, for practical reasons, have financial, geographical, or other logistical reasons you must shop at Walmart or at one of its sister stores. That, too, I totally respect. You have no need to explain anything to me. It is simply my wish to leave no ground uncovered as to the intensity of my views on the matter.
Lately I've been awake at odd hours. My dad says I'm running the risk of turning into one of those bizarre creatures who lives in his or her parents' attic or basement well into his or her (for whatever reason, these characters tend to be portrayed by the media as most typically male, but I suppose I could break a few barriers here) forties and ekes out my meager existence by delivering newspapers (a dying occupation, if you haven't noticed, with the shift of news emphasis from print to Internet, so if my dad is even close to correct in his prediction of my future, I probably need to come up with a Plan B in terms of the eking out of my meager existence) while creating my own comic book superhero series complete with plastic action figures to be sold separately, or perfecting the formula for the ultimate expeditiously biodegradable yet functional toilet paper.
As far as I can tell, my dad's sole reason for his concerns in this regard are that I have had recent difficulty in sleeping through the night. My dad could solve this problem in a nanosecond by tossing an Ativan or Klonopin (or Tylenol PM, for that matter; melatonin makes me toss my cookies) in my general direction on occasion, but it gives him comparatively greater personal satisfaction to be able to elaborate on the oddness of my lifestyle to his friends and coworkers than to actually provide a viable solution to the problem. I could buy my own Tylenol PM if I really wanted to, as I'm a legal adult, and one doesn't, for that matter, need to be eighteen or over to purchase the stuff, but my mother prefers, because of my somewhat complicated medical history, that I not self-medicate even with over-the-counter remedies. Since my mother is generally an easy person with whom to coexist and one who makes few demands on me or infringements upon my personal liberties, I humor her in this regard. Furthermore, I've found Tylenol PM (or Motrin PM, for that matter, although NSAIDS wreak havoc on my already-too-efficient digestive system and thus are not a particularly viable option) works really well the first night I take it, but has increasingly diminished effectivity on subsequent nights.
It's not such a problem for me, anyway. If sleep eludes me, I get up and look over schoolwork, then perhaps blog for a bit, until I eventually become sleepy. Unless my dad gives me a benzo or a Lunesta when I have these wakeful times in the night, that's the way it's going to continue to be. He's just lucky I don't choose that time to play the piano. That's what my brother does if he can't sleep when he's home. It infuriates my dad, but my mom won't let him make Matthew stop playing, because she's so happy to have Matthew practice the piano at all that she'll tolerate it even at 3:00 a.m. Sometimes I think Matthew might actually be a little smarter than we've been giving him credit all along for being. He's like the kindergartner who figures out that if you behave like a complete asshole for the first three weeks of each school year, the dunderhead patrol squad will reward you with stickers, sugary treats, extra computer game time, etc., for the rest of the year just for behaving as a quasi-normal human being.
I'm growing sleepy, so the relative merits of Ambien versus Xanax are turning into a moot point.
Goodnight, all. I'll see you again at a more civil hour. Or then again, maybe I won't. I may next be communicating with you at another 4:00 a.m. as I take a break from my comic book artistry and composition. I'm not sure whether to go back to my old standby of Catholic Cat and Protestant Pup (they were cartoon characters whose lives I chronicled during the many hours of free time in kindergarten I had to kill each day while waiting around for my classmates to finish printing their h's and counting how many tiny kittens were in each box so that they could then count them cumulatively and come up with sums; there's got to be a better way to educate our youth, but if one is ever found, it probably won't be found by a Catholic educator) or to come up with something more sinister, such as Phaedra, the Patron (Matron?) Saint of Conflicted Sexuality.