Cinco

         I am currently typing from an air mattress, which to my disdain has been strategically positioned beside the bed of my beloved brother. You see, Connor has this problem... And when I say "problem", I'm actually referring to his evil plot to make me mentally insane by the time I leave my parents home after the holiday weekend. I am quite convinced that he had himself trained in the art of night terror performances before I arrived, so as to not fail in his great plan of demise.
        Every night after I use my go go gadget arm to switch off the bedroom light, I think to myself, "Great. Fifteen minutes till the one man marching band releases his mighty wrath of fury on my beauty sleep." And sure enough, the moment his breathing softens to a steady open mouth snore, I brace myself for the nightmare that awaits me not in my sleep but in my awakened state of anxious insomnia. I pull the covers up under my chin and begin my ritual restless leg syndrome. I do this as a useless attempt to bring about that deep sleep you can only hope for while trying to avoid consciousness before the detonation of a bomb. Someone say a prayer for me please.