I am a terrible sleeper. I always have been. Even when I was a tiny baby, I would sit up with my eyes wide open until I would fall over exhausted in the wee hours of the morning. To this day not much has changed. I am perpetually restless. I apparently say really mean, awful things to people while I slumber. I also sing and giggle in my sleep, something that my sister harassed me about for years. I very rarely dream and never remember any of the lengthy conversations I am told I have with people. Sleep is like tissue paper to me; fragile and fleeting.
The ridiculously weird thing, and something that I have in common with my roommate, Jeff, is that I have my best sleeps in the oddest places; be it in a bathtub, under a table or my very favourite, the backseat of our trusty, well-worn tour van, Jean Claude Damn Van.
Last night was one of those nights. After a ferry ride and a long drive, we camped out in the middle of a thunderstorm near the world's largest truck. We baked biscuit dogs on sticks and drank beer and it very nearly felt like a vacation.
I terrified some poor, drunk biker lady by peeing in the bushes and made her scream like a banshee. It felt strange to be a thing that went bump in the night, and she laughed her head off when she realized I wasn't the boogieman.
Eventually I made my way to my lovely metal cocoon; my preferred, albeit wussy, camping structure. It's embarrassing to admit, because I really love camping, but to this day, I can't make friends with a tent. I work at it every few months, but I usually fail. I ultimately can't fathom the idea of a piece nylon fabric protecting me from the illimitable number of bears and serial killers that occupy my late night imagination.
But, safe in the belly of JCDV, I curled up and really slept, content and entirely comfortable with the fact that I would wake up with the imprint of the seat belt on my forehead.
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