At some point in the middle of the night, when I was not sleeping as much as I should have been, a result of either the most darling of darling Christmas trees in my bedroom (lit up like Clark Griswald’s house in “Christmas Vacation) or my Mom snoring, my half-awake brain came up with a fabulous entry for today.

Insightful! Hilarious! One of my best, I tell you.

If only I could remember it.

Why my brain works on overtime during my somnambulist hours is beyond me. As I begin to fall into a deep slumber, I am a genius. Nobel-prize worthy, in fact. I pontificate! I speculate! I postulate! And yet, if I don’t write it down, I promptly forget it.

Yes, I have a pad of paper by my bed. Yes, I have oft-times written a few notes to remind myself of my brilliant thoughts in the morning, only to realize that my brilliant thoughts weren’t all that brilliant.

Point in case: last Tuesday, after taking drunk photos of me and my cat Samantha (trust me, we’re adorable at 2am), I thought it would be just GENIUS to write about the progression of a drunk evening. Except I’ve done so before. At least once. Redundancy is a word I often ignore when inebriated (as the choice of a few of my extracurricular evening, ahem, activity partners could attest to.) But I digress.

THIS entry, I tell you, the one I thought of last night, was not in the aforementioned redundant or non-brilliant category. THIS entry, my friends, was spectacular. I found my half-asleep laughing at my own wit, impressed by my own use of the language (with my take on the vernacular, of course), surprised by how WELL the entire entry fit together.

It wasn’t me bitching about ex’s who need to be exorcised.
It wasn’t me delighting about the holiday season (though trust me, my Christmas Tree can kick your Christmas Tree’s ass. You just wait.)
It wasn’t me talking about the delectable Sweet Potato Casserole that had just the right amount of coconut in it to make it a quasi-orgasmic experience. (Especially in this time of Aubrey-Date-Drought…)
It wasn’t me citing my web stats, even though this query (“it’s really quite pathetic if you really think about it but i was smokin weed cuz i can’t drink without it”) is the strangest thing I’ve ever seen to reference my site.
It wasn’t me wondering if my Mom intentionally put something in the much-loved Broccoli Casserole that sent my stomach into disarray.
It wasn’t me writing letters to celebrities that I dislike (Christina Aguilera & Carrot Top, if I ever run into you, be prepared since I want to lock you both in a storm shelter to fester off each other’s nastiness forever) or ones that I think are being foolish not to leave their girlfriends and run into my arms.
It wasn’t me maligning JJ Abrams for his cliff-hanger episode last night, making me wait another week to find out if skank-o-rama Lauren Reed (who, amusingly enough, won a ROLLER SKATING Championship at age 14!!) had anything to do with Syd’s disappearance. (Yes. I’m obsessed.)
It even wasn’t me coming up with a list of traits that my future boyfriend should have (though “lives in Atlanta”, “finds me hilarious” and “eats lots of junk food but isn’t fat” are new additions to the ongoing list.)

It was good, people, REALLY good.
And for the life of me, I can’t remember it.