Bedtime for Bonzo

It’s 8:15 and I want to go to bed. This despite the fact that just a few short hours ago I stopped by Fair Grounds and drank what I considered at the time to be way too much coffee. Perhaps I wouldn't be so tired if on Friday I hadn't gone to bed drunk and consequently been unable to sleep, or if I could somehow program myself to sleep through the disturbingly delicious smell of frying pork that has come to characterize my Sunday mornings.

So (you may be asking) if I’m tired, why don’t I quit whining about it and just go to bed?

Did I mention that it’s 8:15? I didn’t even go to bed at 8:15 when I was in elementary school. Back when I was cool. Back when I secretly stayed up reading by the night-light when they sent me to bed. (Wait, maybe that’s not that cool. I wasn’t reading. I was, um, doing something cool. Like playing Barbies. Barbies are cool, right?)

I’m tired, but I’m 30 years old and I’m staying up till 9 goddamnit. Or maybe 8:45.