The hour grows late and I am still awake.


This is not like me. Or rather, it is like me but like the me I was and less like the me I have been recently.


Hmm, I'm trying to figure out if I've insulted myself. I hope not.


I've been this new fad diet that is "all the rage" with Mexican-American males aged 22-23. I've been subsisting primarily on oatmeal and Claritin. The combination of oats and allergy medication helps me feel like a race horse and breathe like a champion.

An unexpected side effect is the 40% decrease in my need for sleep. It's very strange to me. But I feel pretty good so I guess I can't complain.

No rest for the wicked, I suppose.


* * * *

Sometimes I wish I had kids. Especially times when I read things like this.


"Phlogiston, Calx," I would scold. "Make sure to eat all of your vegetables. Remember, there are starving people up in space."


"Fine," Phlogiston would retort. "Why don't you go put the vegetables into a geosynchronous orbit and let them eat it!"


"Young lady! What have I told you about being smart at the dinner table!"


"Don't worry, Pops, she's not," Calx would snort, "A geosynchronous orbit has to be at 35,000 kilometers above the Earth and the space station orbits at 550 kilometers. The space station can't reach that altitude, ya dummy!"


"Boy," I would growl, "Don't call your little sister names. And what have I told you about using the metric system?"


"Naw-aw," Phlogiston would say, "A simple, low-energy Hohmann Transfer would take them right out of Low Earth Orbit, stooopid!" She would stick out her tongue and cross her eyes to emphasize the word "stooopid."


"Heh heh," I'd laugh. "'Ho man'. You kids say the darndest things!"