war of the rosas and sleep

yeah, so it's 2:30 in the am and i am on the computer, which means i'm hitting critically productive strides towards another bout of insomnia. once i actually leave the bed and turn on a light, i'm past the point of no return. i've cleaned my office, well, sort of. i can't bear to put laundry away from last weekend. it will soon be this weekend. this i think makes me feel like a failure as an adult in many ways, the fact that there are some domestic chores in which i simply throw up my hands and say 'i cannot bear it right now'. and so sits the third world squalor that is my office. i currently have a load of towels with detergent in the broken washing machine downstairs replete with $1.25 in quarters. an uberwenschen adult crime scene. some sort of maturity police might come in and arrest me.

it is late, and i imagine myself face to face with the little shits that are eating my peanut butter sacrifices. yes, that is right, the rosas are back. war is on, baby. currently, i have one mouse under my belt, and i have carved one little notch into the trap. i feel like that kid in red dawn:

'all that hate is gonna burn you up, boy.'
'it keeps me warm.'

oh, i just had a frightening thought, i am so glad the mice don't parachute into the kitchen and speak russian and spanish interchangeably, that would be horrifying. or if they had wings. shutter. one down, 147 left to go. no, i don't know how many of them live here, but cheeba, the neighbor's cat, does a fan-fuckin'-tastic job of chasing them to floor three where their audacity and arrogance make me want to exact a sort of roman punishment upon them and their kin. they are currently getting incredibly talented at eating the peanut butter off the trap without setting it off. little fuckers are evolving. i only killed junior, a little baby mouse and he was damned cute for being a dead mouse. i hear the little 'avenge my boy' squeaks from under the stove.

all this being said, i received my daily writer's almanac poem. today's poem is from an anthology called A Cappella: Mennonite Voices in Poetry. here is "Instructions" by Sheri Hostetler:

Instructions

Give up the world; give up self; finally, give up God.
Find god in rhododendrons and rocks,
passers-by, your cat.
Pare your beliefs, your absolutes.
Make it simple; make it clean.
No carry-on luggage allowed.
Examine all you have
with a loving and critical eye, then
throw away some more.
Repeat. Repeat.
Keep this and only this:
what your heart beats loudly for
what feels heavy and full in your gut.
There will only be one or two
things you will keep,
and they will fit lightly
in your pocket. 

maybe i sort of needed that. what are my absolutes? right now, i have no problem with the critical eye part, but the loving part is escaping me. i know i need to sleep, but experience and a lifetime of not-sleeping has made me keenly aware that this will not come easily and without some kind of internal peace summit and/or drugs.

current mood: not fucking sleepy.

so, just curious, does anyone remember the four years in which i stopped dropping the f-bomb on a regular basis and snapped at people when he would say the f-word? perhaps i should try to reinstitute that again. it's really unbecoming, no? and i may drop it in front of a child or something.