I may be a narcoleptic.

I have this uncanny ability to fall asleep no matter where I am, what position I’m in, and what I’m doing. I work this mortal body pretty hard, and it has to keep up, what with my soul being so old and all, it just wants to get the best out of the life its got. And when the body can’t keep up it falls asleep.

Cases in point:

Pulling an all-nighter to study for an anatomy and physiology exam. Halfway through naming the different articulators of the femur, I fell asleep: my head propped up by a pencil, stuck in my ear, held by my now asleep arm.
Night-hiking on a particularly rainy night in Mt. Makulot. When we got back to base camp it was still pouring rain. I had meant to just put down my camping gear on the cabin steps, but instead fell asleep midway through bending over, my body cascading down the steps, hugging the backpack like a body pillow. On the way down I forgot that I hadn’t peed yet, so I figure “let’s multitask!”. Sleeping and Peeing in the Rain. The reader’s digest story writes itself.
On a bus from downtown Cairo to one of the American compounds north of the city. I had exhausted the adrenaline rush from dodging my chaperone, avoiding rickety cabs, ducking camel spit, and oggling at the bright one-color fabrics covering every woman on the street (they looked like big, walking, multi-colored sticks of fruity gum). With both legs up, arms dangling uselessly by my side, my head hung on for dear life to my neck as it plopped into the hot plastic backseat.

I could sense that my mouth was open, but I just didn’t have the energy to close it. In my defense, I was aware it was open. I just couldn’t be bothered to give a rat’s ass.
Today on a trip from on office location to another (which took about three hours), I dozed off. The driver had picked up a van with what felt like no suspension whatsoever, so I sensed every little bump in the road.

How did I sense it?

When we set off, my head rested gently on a window. As the driver haphazardly sped through the road, intent on hitting every visible pothole like some sick twisted game of whack-a-weasel, the van rumbled and vibrated like a clothes dryer trying to perma-press a load of water.

My head, being held up by nothing more than sheer will power, was no longer resting gently on the window.

It rumbled and vibrated merrily along with the van. Each bang on the window pane changed the channel of my dream. And this was a channel-surfing marathon. By a crack addict. On 17 cups of coffee. And no potty breaks.

And yet I dreamed on.