Sleepyhead

Suttonberry Finn

I reckon I ought to take up smoking cigarettes.

It would make dealing with my family a hell of a lot easier. Maybe I need something a little stronger than a bloody cigarette, maybe I needed to do what all those crazy girls back in college did when things got a little heavy, maybe I needed to pop a few Xanax and hit a couple bongs and just chill the fuck out. But then again, my face would get all wonky and my sleeping would fall into an even worse pattern. And my already horrible pattern can’t really take much more of that.

So cigarettes. Maybe I ought to just take my bike down to the gas station, buy myself a pack, and relinquish in all the calming glory it should to bring.

But then again, you don’t become relaxed from them until you’re addicted. And I’m the farthest thing from it.

And I don’t have a bike anymore.

Everything sucks.

I’m stretched too thin. And you know what; I never thought in my entire life I’d ever say that.

You know, some might think in situations like these, good old Sutton Lark would take the backseat in all the really important things and end up trying to cheer the pants up out of everyone. You would think that Sutton Rose Lark, bless her innocent, good natured soul, would be baking cupcakes and brightening up everyone’s spirits with a good joke or two.

You would be wrong. I was doing everything.

I shouldn’t complain. I shouldn’t complain because Mum’s really torn up about this whole thing and it’s not like Dad would take the time out of his busy vase hunting schedule to actually give a shit. And Willie and Eileen and Bailey are too focused on themselves to possibly spend any time helping out with things. So it was me, and my attempts at getting Mum to help.

Planning a funeral.

Like I said, I could use a cigarette or two.

Well, technically it is all planned. Mum and Gran made arrangements for it after Granddad passed because that was such a shock on all of us and nothing was done. But it was me who had to make sure Mum called the funeral home, made sure we phoned all the relatives, and made sure there was most definitely going to be space in the fridge for all the strange foods neighbors were going to bring over.

But it was also me who fell asleep in the middle of a phone call with Cousin Olivia who lives in Scotland. And it was me who almost threw Dad’s new vase into the pond in the backyard. And it was me who was hiding in her room all morning because I could bear to spend another fucking moment with my family.

Cheers, happy funeral.

So far I’d managed to A. not sleep at all and B. actually crack open a book that had been sitting on my shelf, collecting dust and had a ring on the cover from that time I’d used it as a coaster to put my drink on. Honestly, who knew that books had a function other than for keeping the nice wood furniture from warping?

But I’d been reading a little old novel called Huck Finn. (Well, the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, but you know, whatever.)

Since four in the morning, I’d been reading that good old page turner. Not a hundred percent certain why I had an American coming-of-age novel on my bookstand that had faced much controversy in its history in schools and the public (okay, fine, I read that on the back of the book jacket), but I think somewhere along the line my mum bought it for me and when I refused to read it (because it’s not like I actually read as a child), it sat on my shelf collecting dust with all the other useless trinkets. And there was a small black spider crawling over the top and after a long battle which include muffled shrieks and a full out desire to yell for a man to take care of it, that little sucker was picked up (alive, mind you) with a tissue and set outside my window.