This week I have begun a personal campaign to give up napping. Napping is fine every once in while, but recently I had been taking upwards of four naps a week and it became apparent that I was no different from a common baby. To be honest, I didn’t nap nearly this much when I was younger. Back then naps were anathema to me, and once when I was about three I remember my daycare supervisor having to send me downstairs to play while all the other kids slept. I was the only one in the basement and there wasn’t anything to do down there except dick around with a few jankety toys, so I thought I was being punished. This was very confusing, because why should I be disciplined for not being tired? What if my supervisor forgot about me down there? All I could do was just sit quietly at the bottom of the stairs and cry and cry.

What I’ve realized about napping is that when your body becomes accustomed to naps, it expects them every day. Even if you get seven or eight hours of sleep, you’ll still begin to feel a little drowsy right around 5 or 6 in the evening, and there’s not much you can do about it but curl up in a little ball in the corner of your bed like the pathetic infant you are. You may as well wear some diapers and forget how to shit in the toilet while you’re at it, because by this point you’re basically just a ridiculous baby. Then when you wake up from your nap, you have no idea what time of the day it is or whether or not you’ve overslept or what your teacher has been prattling on about for the past forty minutes. Have we really been reduced to this? I say it’s time to start toughening up and acting like adults for once and actually remain completely conscious throughout the entire day, no matter how little sleep you got in the nighttime. But I’m still going to keep a regular juice time, because if I don’t get my treat of juice and crackers at 2:40 in the afternoon I become really crabby untill dinner.

If you ever want to ostracize yourself from a social group, I recommend agreeing to play Euchre while being a little shaky on some of the rules. I’ve actually learned and forgotten how to play Euchre over twenty times, because my brain refuses to permanently remember any details of this wretched game. But Euchre is very popular in lame places such as Michigan, so I’m constantly finding myself beginning a game with the naive presumption that I’ll remember how to actually play before I make an embarrassing mistake. The problem is that in Euchre you’re paired with a teammate who expects an unrealistic level of competence and nonverbal communication, and this pressure causes me to freak out and trump him or volunteer to play a hand alone with the crappiest cards imaginable. I usually don’t make it ten minutes before being forcibly removed from the Euchre table, but by that time I don’t care. I know they’ll always be another opportunity to play Euchre, and I’d never pass up a match with a group of hardcore super-serious Euchre players. That’s because my favorite thing in the world is to put an insane emotional investment in shitty 19th century card games I don’t know how to play.