“What time do you go to bed and wake up currently?”

Bed? Jesus Christ, who has the luxury of “going to bed” these days? There’s no bedtime here, only the slow, spiraling descent into unconsciousness when the body finally gives out. Most nights I’m still pacing the room at 4:00 AM, chain-smoking like a lunatic and muttering about Bush-era conspiracies.

When I do collapse, it’s never intentional. It’s a tactical surrender, usually face down on the couch, fully clothed, with a half-finished glass of bourbon sweating on the table and a laptop humming ominously like it’s waiting for my soul.

Waking up is even worse. I don’t so much “wake” as I claw my way out of the abyss, gasping for air like a drowned man. It happens sometime between 10:00 AM and high noon, depending on how many hours the insomnia demon allowed me before slipping a pillow over my face. The first thing I see are the empty bottles and coffee cups scattered like evidence in a crime scene. My head is a nest of hornets. My teeth feel like they’ve been swapped out for gravel.

By the time I drag myself upright, the sun is already high and accusatory, and I’m chugging coffee so strong it could burn a hole through the linoleum. That’s when the cycle begins again, writing, pacing, paranoia, more coffee, bourbon, and the slow crawl toward that inevitable 4:00 AM staring contest with the void.

So no, I don’t go to bed. I fall into it, like a man shot through the chest.