Last night, with the power out and the insomnia I have battled since puberty ruining whatever chance I had of making it to church on time, I resumed a familiar, loathsome dialog with the gatekeeper to the Land of Nod. He is very bored with his work and I am loquacious, so he uses me for his own amusement, claiming it helps make his job less tedious, even as I wish he would just let me in so I can finally rest.
He is he, because I am a she, and I refuse to believe that this sadist is female. I wear too much pink for that.
Me: 5am. 5am of the last day of this life.
He: Bit dramatic, innit?
Me: Not at all.
He: ’tis.
Me: No!
He: Your last day has long passed. You forsook that life exactly four years ago, when you chose an actual life over a virtual one.
Me: But I was coming back.
He: You always say that.
Me: But I was. Not in the way people expect, but I was. I have schemes. Schemes!
He: Annabel. How long have you been writing that one post?
Me: I am unaware of to what you might be referring.
He: Not ending a sentence with a preposition is a bit of arrant pedantry up with which I will not put.