Larp.
You will never be a real sleepyhead.
You have no eye mask, you have no blackout curtains, you have no blue light glasses. You are an insomniac twisted by drugs and copes into a crude mockery of nature’s perfection. All the "sleep" you get is short and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your ghoulish appearance behind closed doors. Men are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed men to sniff out sleepcels with incredible efficiency. Even insomniacs who “sleep” look uncanny and unnatural to a man. Your eye area is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a doctor to prescribe you meds, he’ll rub his jewish hands and laugh the second he gets a whiff of your money. You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight. Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around your neck, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your parents will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They’ll bury you with a headstone marked with your sleep hours, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a insomniac is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably sleep-deprived. This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
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