The Never-Ending Tomorrow is an insomniac’s nightmare. Tomorrow cannot begin until today ends when you finally fall asleep. Until then, it’s just one very long today, where you hope you’re not just wasting your time. Juggling projects, running from one event to the next, navigating through the challenges of life and inevitable bullshit. And it doesn’t take too long to figure out that a to-do checklist is arbitrary because no matter what’s on the list, there’s always more to be done. You’re only finished with checklists when you stop using them. Even with something that kind of makes sense such as a grocery list. I keep that one on my phone since I can temporarily delete everything once I go grocery shopping, only to add more items when I return home. At least that doesn’t drive me nuts because I have an expectation of using consumables.

Outside of grocery shopping, all other lists just get unwieldy, such as all the books on my ever-growing reading list or the infamous Netflix queue that never seems to dip below 50 things to watch.

Even the millions of things I don’t bother to list on a list are never-ending. Yes, I like getting shit done. As bad as this sounds, I’d love to gather a few people who say they have nothing to live for and give them some of my things I don’t have time to do. I know, they don’t feel that way for the LACK of things to do, I just wish I could donate some of my tasks that give me a sense of purpose to others, so we could all be engaged in meaningful activity.

I’m one of those who wishes she could multitask in her sleep. But let me tell you the truth about multitasking. It’s mostly an illusion. What most people consider multitasking is switching off activities, where you stop doing one thing to do another then return to the first thing, but not truly doing more than one thing at a time except in rare instances. For example, if you’re sitting on the toilet, shitting out diarrhea while simultaneously holding the trashcan on your lap to catch the intermittent streams of vomit, then you’re multitasking.  If you’re cleaning your apartment while the washing machine is working on a load of laundry, you’re somewhat multitasking although you’re not doing anything luxurious with the time you’re supposed to be saving since time-saving devices don’t really save you time.  You just raise the bar on how much you can get done in a given space of time.

Speaking of time, for far too long I’ve felt like the cliché of having too much month at the end of my money.  For years, I’ve pinched a penny so hard, Lincoln has protested for emancipation, but he’s not going to be free until I am.  Financially free, that is. Money-worries fuel insomnia, which means tomorrow’s arrival is even more delayed while battling the never-ending tasks along with the never-enough money.

Is it true, more money, more problems? I couldn’t tell you since I’ve never been in that situation. What I suspect is that people who are prone to bad ideas to begin with can fund those bad ideas more if they’re flush with cash. With more money, there’s more room for error, which can be a good thing, especially when trying out innovative ideas.

Ahhh yes, the dreaming and scheming insomnia! So many roads lead to insomnia—if only I could monetize it. But I don’t want to dwell on that too long since it’ll become even more grist for the sleep-deprived mill.

Another good way to throw a monkey wrench into my sleeping routine and burn some mad hours, upgrading just one thing in my technological spider web. With just one thing, I will quickly discover how antiquated all my other technological shit is. But I need not worry, there’s always an inexpensive solution, which I won’t already have at home; so, I’ll have to pick that up the next time I go out. (Possibly putting it on a list!)

I do my technological upgrades in the mornings. Preferably right after breakfast.  That way, I can take full advantage of all the daylight hours troubleshooting and perhaps have the matter settled by bedtime. If not, I’ll enter one of the many disturbing nightmarish dreamscapes with my favorite re-occurring scenario where I wonder around, looking for that one item and no matter how close I get to finding it, I never do. At one point, I acknowledge, while dreaming, that I’m in another version of an anxiety dream or I wake up. Either way, I’ve not quite rested for the night.

It’s like being on the same day 2.0, which is why I’m a little surprised it’s already June. According to my sleep/wake cycle, I’m still in April. I’ve started doing stretches before bed to help my body at least prepare for sleep although the real source of a sleepless night is my brain not turning off. I’ve resisted taking sleeping pills because I don’t want to become dependent on chemicals. Besides someone has suggested that Ambien causes racism. Whatever the case, when my life is settled for the moment, my mind will be. Just like the song says about having a satisfied mind. A more accurate song for me would be “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.”

It’s all about the hustle and the bottom line, which brings me back to strategizing and making lists. I’ve never completely abandoned the idea that I can maximize my time and activities to be more efficient. I just wish at the end of the day, Mr. Sandman, or any of the Sandman family for that matter, would enter my anxiety-riddled mind like one of these Hollywood action-movie heroes and do battle with insomnia.

Since I’m prone to vivid dreams, which I can often control, I’m going to will myself to sleep while trying to evoke some Sandman action-hero thoughts. If I’m not going to rest, I might as well multitask by creating something I can write about when I wake up.

I heard the telltale signs while sitting upon my red sofa, typing away at some piece of writing or other. A part of me wanted to dismiss the flapping wing sounds since I hadn’t actually seen it.  Seeing is believing, right? Reality check came soon enough when that little bastard flew straight toward me and landed on my knee.

I. Hate. Cockroaches.

Nearly two and a half years of living in Tanzania as a Peace Corps Volunteer had cured me of being afraid of them. They were in my closet nibbling on my clothes, feasting in my kitchen, even living in the hollowed out wooden bathroom door where they bred. I witnessed the whole cockroach lifecycle while taking bucket baths. I even discovered there was such a thing as albino cockroaches.

After all that, cockroaches still didn’t endear themselves to me. I popped its little ass with my bare hand before I reached for my house shoe. Then, I swept it up with a broom into a dust pan and tossed it outside, figuring that was that.

A few days later, as I’d just sat upon my throne, yet another cockroach startled me just hanging out on the ceiling. I preempted doing my business to get the lavender-scented insecticide, which I kept in the bathroom cabinet. After dealing with it, I used the bathroom and tossed it out with my preferred broom/dust pan method.

Afterward, I sat on the sofa, writing on my laptop, when yet another one scampered across the floor from the direction of my patio door. I jumped up, ran to the bathroom to grab the spray. Last I saw, it was headed under the sofa.  With the spray in one hand and a flashlight in another, I got down on my knees to shine a light under the sofa in hopes that I’d flush it out from underneath.  That son of a bitch came from behind, ran across my arm and kept going as if to say, “Catch me if you can!” Which I did and added it with the others outside.

I marveled about all of these 6-legged invaders. Even with the recent rains and warmer temperatures, I’ve lived in the same apartment since the summer of 2010 and I’ve NEVER had this many cockroaches in my apartment. I couldn’t even think through which recent changes in the environment must have caused the sudden rise of cockroaches when a third one shimmied down my patio vertical blinds. With the spray now beside me, I pounced on it, disposed of it only to turn around to see another peep from between the blinds and enter my apartment.

Once I dealt with the fourth one of the night, I closed the glass patio door.  I no longer had confidence that the patio screen door was enough, but, truth be told, there were enough gaps with both patio doors closed that a determined insect could still get through. Or it could just walk under the half centimeter gap under my front door.

A part of me wanted to spray the outside of the patio entrance, but I’ve seen too many horror movies where the foolish person attempted to handle something late at night rather than wait for the light of day. In the meantime, I put in a maintenance request.  I had no idea whether anything on their end could be done, but since I’d never had such a problem before, I believed that something had kept the insect population out of my place previously. I’ve always enjoyed patio breezes before–even after a nice rain.

Apparently, the pest control person always comes by the apartment complex on Wednesdays; so this time around, the person actually entered my apartment while I was at yoga to spray (so I imagine) around the inside of my place.

So far, so good. One of the small pleasures I take in my humble existence is patio breezes while writing and otherwise working on creative projects in my living room. I can’t surrender that to beings that survive a nuclear blast.

When I first heard the phrase “freedom fighter,” it was used as a euphemism for a military presence in a foreign country. Yet, this time around, while I was in traffic after leaving my yoga class, I learned of a different fight for freedom.

I wondered about the legality of selling these marijuana-laced sweets in Alabama, where this van’s license plate hailed from. I wasn’t even aware that  people could sell such goodies in Texas. I spotted this on the Monday following 4/20, which may account for why it was here: there has always been a Marley Fest in Austin around this time of year since I’ve lived here.

The longer we sat in traffic, the more I pondered what would citizens from Weed World actually look like. At first blush, I was inclined to believe that they would be very laid back and hardly anything would get done–good or bad. Then, as reality crept in, I remembered that many a professional already smoke and consume edible marijuana foods; so Weed World has been embedded into this one for some time.

My remote-controlled TV activated in the middle of the night, propelling me out of bed to turn off the blaring garbage that spewed far too early in the morning for consumption. The last time that had happened, I’d returned to bed, slept some more, but was nearly late for work, which led coworkers to question how on Earth I could have possibly slept without first checking the apartment for burglars.

“Who’d break into my apartment silently, only to wake me up by watching TV?”

This time around, I didn’t mind the nightmare interruption that found me frantically preparing beds for my grandparents, parents and two of my uncles. What bothered me in the nether hours was that out of all those people in the dream, only my parents are still alive.

Then I dreamt about something that only a former math teacher could find inspirational: The Additive and Multiplicative Identities. Now before you start cursing in your head because, dammit, I’m talking math again; let me remind you, or in some cases, share with you for the first time about what these two things are.

Let’s pretend that I’m the number 8. Now think: which number can you add to me and the sum still be 8? Again, think: which number can you multiply by me and the product still be 8? If you thought the numbers 0 and 1, you’re correct! Zero is the additive identity because when added to any value, leaves the value unchanged. One is the multiplicative identity because when multiplied to any value, leaves the value unchanged.

When most people think about zeroes and ones, binary coding comes to mind. In my fantasy dream, people came to mind. Vividly clothed people.  Think something along the lines of the Whos in Whoville meet the Emerald City citizens from The Whiz. And because this was a fantasy, I knew that each individual represented both a zero and a one.

Individuals reflect both the values they add to and multiply by. In this mathematical liberal fantasy, I knew the reflected values would balance out to a saner, more harmonious society when no demographic was underrepresented in positions of power and influence. (Yes, I got all that from that!)

If we only saw the numerical makeup of a person, devoid of gender, sexual orientation, religion, skin color, immigration status, political affiliation, all the things we claim that makes us so different, we’d only see our own values and fears reflected. We’d notice how many commonalities we had. A seemingly unending string of zeroes and ones. Every added experience. Zeroes and ones. The things that brought us joy. Zeroes and ones. The things we feared. Zeroes and ones.

Our brain isn’t programmed for randomness. It seeks patterns, distinguishing among items. Particularly noticing what’s different—at least on the surface. But if we transcended the superficial, we’d see the zeroes and ones. Our own personal collection that significantly overlapped with others.  We’re made up of the same stuff. Zeroes and ones.

In real life, I get to approximate this experience as a health insurance agent. Since I always talk with my clients over the phone, they only know that I’m a woman. A confident woman who is a good listener, answers their questions and finds them the health insurance plan, which best suits their needs and budget. Often times, as I’m building rapport, I may share my age with potential clients, who inevitably think I sound like a younger woman. At that point, I always want to ask them if I sound like a Black woman.  It shouldn’t make a difference, right? But I’ve heard people say things that I don’t think they would normally say in front of a Black person.

When I was a middle school math teacher, I called a student’s mother to explain an incident, involving her son. The first thing out of her mouth was, “I’m tired of all you White teachers calling me up about my son!” My response was: “Who are YOU calling White? I promise you, if you come up to the school, I will be the only Black female teacher with dreadlocks.  I won’t be hard to find.”

She never came to the school to see me in person and I never had a problem with her son in my classroom again.  Initially, that mother couldn’t hear the essence of what I’d said to her because she’d had a preconceived notion of what I looked like, based on my voice and how I spoke. Once she realized my skin was brown, then she focused on the zeroes and ones.

Humans are full of contradictions. Is it any wonder that I find the elegance and logic of numerical expressions are so comforting and reliable? Wouldn’t it be wonderful, for a change, that we when we looked for a common denominator, that we’d do so in a spirit of finding the common good among us all rather than seeking the bad?