Incoherent Ramblings of a Raging Insomniac

It’s almost 5:00AM, and I’ve been up for three hours.  At least this time I have a solid reason:  I went to see a movie yesterday, and my Regal card earned me a free small soft drink, and even though I never drink anything during a movie, I have a hard time turning down anything free, so I took it.  My “small” Diet Coke was roughly the size of a full roll of toilet paper, and it was 3:00 in the afternoon, so the caffeine continues to rage through my system.  At a little after 2:00, I gave up, made a run to the 24-hour HEB, threw in a couple of loads of laundry and am now settled in for a couple of episodes of Mad Men.

About the movie.  It’s playing at the Arbor, and it’s a documentary called “The Imposter.” I don’t remember the original news story, but around 1994, a 13-year-old boy named Nicholas Barclay disappeared from San Antonio.  Three and a half years later, a kid (in actuality, a 23-year-old sociopath) in Spain claimed to be this boy, stating he’d been kidnapped, shipped off to Spain and, along with numerous other young boys, held as a sex slave in the service of high-ranking military officers.  He’d had three small tattoos to replicate the ones he heard that Nicholas had. He had brown eyes and a French accent, and yet, for several months, he pulled this thing off.  It was incredible.

The Barclays were a struggling working class family.  The snickers and the condescension  from the audience made me feel protective of them.  Clearly everyone was asking themselves:  How could they be that stupid? How could they believe Nicholas could have changed that much?  How could they not see through that ridiculous charade?  Well, I could see all of it.  Denial is a powerful thing.  Losing a child in that way, and thinking you might actually have him back, could make anyone take leave of their senses.  It is a fascinating hour and a half. Catch it.

Jackson and I had decided to rent “Bernie” (my second viewing)  later that night, so even though it’s my least favorite time to do  it, I had no choice but to fit my walk in at around 5:30. Hot, but worth it.  I am incapable of sitting through a movie without popcorn, and, much like biscuits and gravy, it sits uncomfortably in my stomach for hours, accompanied by the question, was it really worth it?  No, it wasn’t, not on a day when walking five miles would merely mean I’m breaking even.

My feet itch. As hard as I am on them, I don’t do anything special to take care of them, and it’s catching up with me. 

This morning will be my last Sunday with the babies, and I am on the lookout for a new volunteer opportunity, this time out in the community. 

How am I going to get through the day on three hours’ sleep?