Last night as I was trying to go to sleep—I'm a slow-sleep insomniac, which means that it can sometimes take me upwards of an hour to power all the way down—I found myself wondering, in that half-place that only exists when you're caught between consciousness and Neverland, whether I'm so reluctant to sleep right now because I'm half-convinced that I'm in the middle of the longest, most detailed linear dream I've ever experienced. And that one day, I'm going to open my eyes and it will be December of 2008 all over again, when I was lonely and scared and had no idea what I was going to do about my future.
Anxiety and mild "my series is over, what do I do now" depression aside, I sometimes look at my life and I'm just staggered by the unlikeliness of it all. I had a book come out on Tuesday. Tomorrow, I'm leaving for Disneyland with my mother, my sister, and my best friend. I have cats that can be charitably called large, and uncharitably called props from a horror movie. I have a movie option. I'm reprinting my fourth album, because it's almost sold out. I have some of the most amazing, interesting, articulate friends and fans and readers in the world. I have an agent who, frankly, could not be more perfect for me if I had been allowed to design my own agent in a lab.
Even the little details are too good to be true. There's an immensely popular line of fashion dolls modeled on famous monsters; Fringe got renewed; Doctor Who is back on the air; the X-Men are awesome again; James Gunn has a video game about a chainsaw-wielding blonde cheerleader who fights zombies with high kicks and snark. Basically, it's like the universe has been rearranging itself to suit my deepest desires, and if not everything is perfect, that's because too much perfection is unbelievable. The world is trying to add veracity to my dream.
This is why I don't like to sleep very much.
I'm too afraid of waking up.