20nothing.com

I don’t watch television. If I wanted to watch something pretty and stupid talk, I would get myself a boyfriend. I do not have a television in my house and will never buy one. Like a relationship,I think they are a total waste of time and space when you are young and [supposedly] free. I don’t just have a problem with televisions [or relationships]. I have an issue with all domestication in general. In fact, I don’t have knives and forks at my house. I have shoes stored in my oven. But I do have four bottles of Jack Daniels. I do have menus to all of my favorite Hollywood restaurants. And, now, I have bean bags.
I just don’t have any interest in buying conventional things for a house. A couch in front of a TV, to me, lacks total imagination and takes up a lot of space that could be used for much more fun things. Like sex. Of course, there is the problem of people needing a place to sit. This is why I only invite people back to my house if I am going to sleep with them.

Bean bags, see, solve just about every problem.

Since I was a teenager, I have suffered from sporadic insomnia. It stems from having an overly active mind and imagination but, ironically, can often be cured if I watch television when I go to bed. Such a solution always provided me with an ethical dilemma and, so, when I was old enough to know better than to watch anything virtual, I researched more productive ways I could get to sleep in an instant.
I quickly discovered sex. I had absolutely no ethical dilemma with that.

Some girls like to chat after sex. Pretty girls saying stupid things. I will do it if I have to, I admit, out of politeness and, sometimes, curiosity.
“What is his name?”
But, in reality, the fastest way to shut me up is to, well, honestly, fuck me. I am out like a light within three seconds of orgasming if I have my way. The pretty boy is more than welcome to talk to himself or go home and watch his TV. So long as I am dreaming instead of doing Suduko Puzzles or watching philosophy lectures until eight o’clock in the morning, I don’t really care.

Moving into my apartment coincided with one of the biggest insomnia attacks of my life. Coincidentally, I had also not had sex in some four hundred and forty million (or similar) days. It is not unusual, recently, for me to be awake for two days straight at any given time and existing as a total waste of space. It sounds great in theory. But, trust me, it is horrible.
You start to do weird things when you don’t sleep. Like, write long emails to people you don’t even like because you are trying to bore yourself to death. Like, see how many pushups you can do consecutively because you may as well get toned out of the ordeal. Like, buy bean bags from an online store at three o’clock in the morning because you remember once upon a time having a dream of having sex on top of them.

I bought bean bags at three o’clock in the morning. It was a perfect plan, really, one of the only positive things other than toned arms to come out of insomnia, because, one, I needed furniture of some description in my apartment. And two, I really wanted to see a bean bag arrive in a massive box at my front door.

OK. And, three, because I wanted to take the box, build a fort in my lounge room and sit in it. And maybe fuck in it.

There is only one bad thing about not having a boyfriend. The lack of constant sex. Sure, there are Booty Calls. But traffic is horrible in LA and, well, honestly, I don’t have that kind of patience. I was laying in bed, alone, starring at the two bean bags screaming at me to pay them sexual attention, like a pretty boy does after sex, when I stopped wondering how I would ever get to sleep again because my mind and imagination became completely overactive with what I should be in the bean bags. If I had the energy, I would have made some calls. But I was exhausted and I needed sleep.
“I will give you a cookie if you guess what I am doing right now,” I challenged LA Girl Friend.
“Sleeping, I hope?”
“No.”
“You built the fort already and you’re sitting in it?”
“No.”
“…”
“I am walking to Pleasure Chest. I was laying in bed. I couldn’t sleep for the four hundred and forty million or similar hour. The bean bags were mocking my life. And so I got dressed and decided to walk two miles to buy a vibrator.”
“How do you have the energy to do that?”
“Mind over matter. An orgasm. It is all I need. I will fall asleep in an instant. It works every time. And I don’t have to talk to it after.”

A large amount of consecutive hours later, my eyes were twinkling instead of tired and my arms felt significantly more toned. A positive thing, really, as the extra strength was useful to build the fucking fort I was trying to occupy myself with because I was still wide awake. Some twenty minutes later, I sat on my new chair protected by cardboard castle walls. A total waste of time and space that looked pretty and stupid. I took some magic beans, curled up and, finally, fell asleep to dream about doing other things on top of them.