A Bedtime Story...for the Chemically Lame
by Michele Ranard
1)In the great green room, there was a telephone and a red balloon...and an insomniac.
2) And a plastic pill cutter for dividing an Ambien tablet into three slivers. Three? Yes, three. For the pharmaceutically hypersensitive, a third will do.
3) But cutters made in China are crap, and the pill becomes dust. It’s pathetic really. The poor sleepy bunny licks thirty-three percent of said crushed bitter sedative.
4) Soon she’ll say goodnight to the kittens. To the moon. Then the mittens. Before long, Mr. Ambien will tickle her sleepy bones.
5) Except she has e-mail. And an online auction ending soon. Plus she needs a shower.
6) The insomniac is screwed. Her head should rest on the pillow immediately. Psychiatrically delicate for all chemicals, she’s in danger of hallucinating. Or even driving to Mexico. Still…e-Bay beckons.
7) A quiet old lady whispers “hush.” Don’t let the sensibilities go to mush! Email and bathing will surely wait. More Virgin Mary toast-stencils will be up for bid, for heaven’s sake.
8) The telephone rings. It’s a sister with a motherlode of hot topics to deconstruct. She really should say goodnight to the three bears sitting on chairs. But sweet mother, she LIKES sisters with hot topics.
9) Amnesia for Mr. Ambien and the bears kicks in. Goldilocks is tired-high and pre-toxicated. It’s win-win.
10) Laughter flows easily during the chat. Her heart leaps like the cow jumping over the moon. She thinks “Surely my sister has never been this hilarious.” Or HAS she?
11) A quiet old lady cops an attitude without rhyme. She whispers “Game over, sleepybetch. You’ve weirded out on Ambien again. Now say goodnight to the friggin mooooon.”
12) REM-less and wired, she cannot. She gazes at the dining room chandelier. It oscillates, swaying east and west above slip-covered chairs. In the great green room, the little chairs begin to melt.
13) Dizzily she hangs up. Where’s that mouse? She studies the twinkling of the chandelier’s crystal. The spectacle of dissolving buttery chairs. Dude! Butter is like the most awwwwwesome bevereverevverage evvvverrrrr.
14) Hush! Wasted, foggy wackness be gone! Come, Mr. Ambien!
15) She hears her beloved as he snores. She’ll rest too—sleep deprived no more. But not before...the panic! She sniffs her sweaty flesh. Not flowery, not fresh. A shower will be good, tiny mouse. A shower is essential, quiet house.
16) Rinse. Lather. Repeat. Ahhhh. Showers are perfectly sweet... until colorful popcorn rains down from the ceiling.
17) Anxiety picks up speed in the house. Popcorn can be TERRIFYING, elusive mouse. When suddenly a strawberry-sized Snuffleupagus savior balances on the Prell. He reminds her it is only pretend hallucinated popped corn, not hell.
18) A comb. A brush. A substance-tickled brain beyond mush. The weary fool slides beneath a white sheet. Mr. Ambien squeezes her eyelids shut—neat! “Goodniiiiighhht…”
19) Almost. Narcoleptic, she forces open a heavy lid, acknowledging a six foot three ghostly crypt-keeper. He hovers above her fragrant toes. She whispers to the apparition: “eat it.”
20) Goodnight, moon. Goodnight, sleepgasmic magic of Mr. Ambien moon. Goodnight, Margaret Wise Brown.
Goodnight, fear. Goodnight, chandelier.
Goodnight, funny sister who’s mental. And Goodnight, Virgin Mary stencil.
Goodnight, hallucinated popcorn. Goodnight, smell-of-neglect smell.
Goodnight, holy Snuffleupagus. Goodnight, Prell.
Michele is neither as obnoxious nor charming as this romp suggests. Visit her at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com and hellolovelystudio.com
