Upside-Down Days

Does this look wrong to you? That' s because I flipped the picture. Usually the day would be at the top because society thinks people who come alive at night are either freaks or Edward Pattinson. Wait. That's the same.

I wonder if the time we are born has anything to do with whether we turn out to be “day people” or “night people.” I was sprung at 12:43 A.M., and that’s about the time I really get going every day. According to most of the world, there is something wrong with me—aside from the depression, eating disorder, hearing loss, and general bitchiness, I mean. Because I prefer to sleep in the daytime and then enjoy the wee hours, society views me as somehow inferior or “not right.” Well. Fuck society.

Nights are so quiet, and for a deaf girl like me, that’s très important. No. Not really. I don’t usually hear a damned thing going on in the day anyway, so it’s all the same. There just is the potential for so much annoying noise in the day. Jack hammers. Clowns. Bagpipes. But at night, there is only the occasional crime victim screaming, sex-grunting in the apartment next door or bombs, if you live in the Middle East. Why would anyone want to sleep when there is the opportunity for so much uninterrupted concentration?

I love the solitude at night when there’s a kind of hush all over the world, thank you, The Carpenters. Everyone else I know is busy not taking advantage of the productivity of 3 A.M. (i.e., sleeping), so I am all alone with my thoughts and reruns of The Nanny. Oy. (Speaking of Fran Drescher, I am so thankful for Closed Captions.) But actually, even television is better late at night because the folks in charge of the F.C.C. are all old as dirt and are watching the insides of their eyelids instead of noticing Janet Jackson’s boob pop out.

I get my best work done while the rest of humanity except for people on the other side of the planet throws away seven or eight of the best hours in every set of 24. Plus, what’s way more fun: lounging in the cool, crisp comfort of cotton king-sized sheets or dripping with solid, running streams of rancid sweat in the car or parking lot or WalMart when it’s 100 fucking degrees outside? I’ll give you a minute. Did you think about it? Then you can see my point.

And, while I’m on the subject of WalMart, shopping there at 3 or 4 in the morning is such a treat. There are usually no in-breds out that late, and the only thing bad is the guy with the draggy leg and one really long tooth who polishes the floors while you’re trying to reach the shit on the top shelf that’s cheaper than the shit at eye level. If you haven’t tried your weekly grocery trip a couple of hours before the sun comes up, you are missing out.

I think it is a shame that most businesses close at night and the only place to get a steak after 11 P.M. is the goddamned Waffle House. The sirloin is all thin and grisly, and there are no blue cheese crumbles. It is totally not worth eight bucks or the risk of being pulled over for D.U.I. just from inhaling the pot scent off the massively stoned cook’s uniform. If I were in charge, I’d flip this whole day/night thing around. Day=siesta; Night=fiesta. (See? I’m learning the American language.) Sigh. But I’m not. And I have to be up like “regular folks” in 5 hours. Grrrr. And good night.