Personal Narrative - Sleeping with the Enemy :: Personal Narrative Writing

sleeping with the Enemy When I decrease asleep in public, Alex informs everyone that Bryan likes to pay specie to go to sleep. His words dont stray far from the truth. I am persuade that I am afflicted, cursed, by something. I am haunted by the constant threat of unconsciousness. Glancing behind me, I see nothing, but experience the shadow that lurks. He is never very far, waiting patiently for me to have my guard. We are very close, my shadow and I, and we know all of each others tricks. A continuing match of wits takes place every time I step into a living room, a movie theater, a library, an automobile. The pass after high school, five buddies and I set off in a van to watch baseball halts at half a dozenteen variant parks across the continent. A dream road trip for six baseball crazed dudes. During one sweltering afternoon in Philadelphias Veterans Stadium, the game tied in late innings, I passed out completely. As a rule, chests were painted to spell out the home t eam as we, imposter rabid hometown fans, cheered our lungs dry. Today I was an S. As my comrades leaped to their feet following a big(p) hit, fans in front of us turned and squinted. Whos Phill? they asked mockingly. The embarrassed friends just pointed at a seated snoozing S, who would later find the outline of his letter sunburned onto his chest. I snored next to probably a dozen different sets of cry bleacher fans that summer. Sleepy McSleepsleep and Permanent S became my permanent new nicknames. Yes, I fall asleep a lot. Wherever there is a big essay to study for, wherever there is a great movie I must see, wherever there is an important person I should listen to, I am there, ready to enforce my reputation and see/ try out/read none of it. Its not that I dont try to maintain wide stretches of consciousness, but I fight a losing war. Its like the cybernetic Borg from necromancer Trek. Resistance is futile, they drone, Classes are irrelevant. Obligations are irrelevant. Fr iends are irrelevant. Time of day is irrelevant. You give be one with the Borg. A terrified crewman fires phaser blasts at the onset machine man, but it has adapted, and continues to mindlessly approach. Suddenly it extends mechanical tentacles into the poor guys neck, and the crewmans hide goes gray, ceasing to be human and becoming part of their Borg collective.