It finally came to me last night… the blog post that would get me Freshly Pressed. My mind was flooded with epic Frenglish words and somewhat well constructed sentences. Not only was I going to be Freshly Pressed, my post was going to be the first of many short stories that would be published and elevate Le Writer Clown to the ranks of Kundera. As the words travelled through the synapses of my mind, something else happened… The Freshly Pressed sentences encountered dead ends, grey zones, dark black holes of nothingness… Evidently, Le Clown was not sleeping… Evidently, the epic Frenglish words and somewhat well constructed sentences were not going to remain in Le Clown’s mind, and reward him with a Fp’d post. Words are like zombies, they feed on brain, and le Clown’s brain was dead – nothing to feed on, please pack your belongings and leave.
Lord Evil Poppy has the flu, or a cold, or the plague… Whatever it is, it does not need to sleep. Whatever it is, it wants company [let's call whatever it is "The Black Death", shall we?]. The Black Death also prefers to hang out with the Pretty. My wife and I, we’re pretty, and The Black Death loves us. If my wife or myself fall into a light drowse, if our lashes get heavy and The Black Death hears a sigh – or a heavy breath - it jumps in our bed and tells us stories like the time it killed 200 million people in the 14th century. You try getting some shut eyes after that… Unslept. Undead. Uncleaned. Un-fucking-believable we’re still awake after 25 months… Lord Evil Poppy – daughter, love of my life – I will give you my first born child for 8 consecutive hours of sleep. I’ll even throw in my beloved fedora hat… Once upon a time, there was a fairy called Sleep. Lord Evil Poppy enjoyed her for breakfast and pooped her diaper.