This is a story about mind over matter...
It doesn't seem to matter how many sleeping pills, tranquillisers and sedatives I swallow, if my brain wants to be awake, it wants me to be awake.
Several times during those 110 hours, I took my night-time pills and got into bed, but my brain was in no mood for sleep. The pathetic pharmaceuticals were brushed off effortlessly, and carried on writing and chatting to people online, all night long.
Eventually, I started to hallucinate. I couldn't see straight. I couldn't type well. I became clumsy. Tasks were slower and harder to accomplish.
The strangest thing though, is that I never became incoherent. I never started spouting gibberish.
I must now try to go to bed and get some sleep.
No doctor is likely to be sympathetic to my plight. They'll batter me with baseball bats and club me with batons. They'll throw bricks at my head and smash planks of wood over me, until I'm so broken I can't get up. In other words, they'll prescribe me dreadful medications, which are the modern equivalent of a straight-jacket.
While chemists' store-rooms are filled with medications which are precisely suitable for my symptoms - insomnia and extreme agitation - those are never allowed to be dispensed. I must suffer the pills that make me fat and unable to have an orgasm. I must suffer the pills that leave me dribbling and shuffling.
For now, I have some of the forbidden pills - the ones that work - and I shall use them until my supply is exhausted. I anticipate a peaceful night of delicious refreshing sleep, with no 'hangover'.