Bedtime.

What’s a night owl to do on a hot, muggy summer night in the beginning of August? The alarm is set for 6:00 a.m. I have hopes of going for a bike ride before getting ready for and to work by 8:00. I’m not tired at all. I can’t even fake being tired right now. All that’s going through my head is that my alarm is going to blare out the news on NPR in less than seven hours.

God bless Earl. I’ve already tried going to bed with him and purposely falling to sleep by his side. I’ve sang “Mr. Sandman” complete with bass line. I’ve chatted like some crazy cross between a whippoorwill and a loon. I’ve done impressions of Earl’s soon-to-arrive CPAP machine by covering my mouth with my hands, breathing really hard and saying “Luke, I am your father.” I’ve flipped back and forth and ended up with my knee in Earl’s back. I’ve played the beginning rhythm of Copacabana on his bare ass. He finally blurted out, “Would you shut the f*ck up?!?” His statement was full of love, no worries there.

I’m still not asleep.

Sigh. Night owls shouldn’t have to fake the day life.

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