I love to sleep.

And thats not me being the stereotypical teenager, who clings to the headboard like it's their only hope of salvation when their parents exasperatedly come storming into their bedroom and whack them over their heads with pillows. (i.e, Freaky Friday)

Nope, its my extreme love for dreams.

I mean, if you think about it, sleeping in general is a pretty sweet activity. You lie down on a comfy bed, wearing comfy clothes, pull on a cover/duvet/blanket/sheet and then, technically, you go visit other worlds within the confines of your mind, without even leaving your bedroom. If you seriously sit down and think it over for a while, you may realize how awesome it is.

Despite all that, I'm a self-inflicted insomniac, who'll stay up from 11 PM to sometimes even 3 AM, doing. . . well, nothing really. That may sound odd, coming from the girl who was just waxing poetic about the joy of sleeping. But one of the reasons I keep myself up is because it's so joyous to sleep. (No, I'm not a masochist.)

. . .That make any sense?

The thing is, dreams are so. . . perfect for me. I don't know if some people have very life-like dreams, in which they talk with regular people or something ordinary like that, but my dreams are typically colorful wonderlands full of mass chaos and absolutely no sense, whatsoever. For example, I once had a dream that involved a club advisor, Miss Connecticut from the Miss USA pageant, roughly 200 kids and a cassette tape that played Black Eyed Peas songs.

I also once had dream that involved hot tubs, dying dogs and a flying car, but thats another story entirely.

So one of the reasons I purposefully deprive myself of sleep, is because when I wake up from my dreams to my mother's insistent voice (Which I always reply with a reluctant shout of "I'm up!") I feel . . . disconnected somehow. Like a puzzle piece being jammed into the wrong space, A sort of "One of these things are not like the other" phenomenon.

So once my mom retreats from her attack on my bedroom door, I'll curl back into a ball, try not to let my eyelids even flutter open a crack, lest I see the light streaking in around my blinds, and try desperately to return to the senseless worlds I explore in the midnight hours. It just feels so right when I'm there, I feel whole somehow. But then I'll wake up at some point and stare up at my ceiling, musing to myself. And at some point during my musing, little memories will pop up, reminding me of all the monotonous things I need to do today, all the annoying errands I'll have to run, all of the awkward social situations I'll be thrust into.

Maybe someone else, someone smarter would merely turn back onto her side and promptly decide to become the female version of Rip Van Wrinkle, or maybe Sleeping Beauty.

Instead I reluctantly release myself from the sweet arms of Morpheus and the warm blankets, and shuffle out to the kitchen to get breakfast.
As much as I would love to do so, I'm sure I'd make a terrible Sleeping Beauty.