One of the many nifty things tramadol does to you as you and It part ways is to sever whatever neural channels allow your brain and your body to stay circadianly in-sync. For instance, you’ll find yourself waking up ass-crack early in the A.M. with a racing mind and a body that feels like it’s been marinating in benadryl. Conversely, come evening your head will be fuck-all tired while this maddening internal physical potential energy zips around through your veins, like electricity. When these things finally run their course so you can get at least a few hours of shut-eye, you’ll be treated to all manner of high-octane dreams that operate at a Jerry-Bruckheimerish intensity level and that are guaranteed to be either totally weird or totally terrifying and often both, simultaneously.
Let’s take this evening as a case in point.
About two hours into the sleep cycle tonight my brain decides to boot up a Cormac McCarthy-esque serial killer scenario in which I get to play the role of “anonymous victim.” But, BUT! In this instance the brain-body dissociation ends up working out in my favor since the atmosphere of relentless dread and impending doom jolts me, physically, into wild-eyed wakefulness long before my own personal Anton Chigurh can make it all the way down the dusty dirt road to the clapboard house in which I’m holed up along with the sheriff and the barber.
Still, though. I’ll be damned if I’m going to shut my eyes and drift back into McCarthy land to again take up the mantle of the hapless idiot cowering under the oak buffet in the dining room. Palliative care is in order and will likely take the form of a cup of chamomile tea, sweetened with honey and served with two S’mores-flavor Quaker Chewy Granola Bars, followed by a vigorous session of therapeutic masturbation and as many rounds of Mario Kart Wii as it takes to dispel the fantods.