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Death at breakfast: The exact calculations for the perfect night’s sleep


Approx Reading Time-10Behold! Genius creativity is married with good old common sense to offer us the most useful computer aid since…ever? The sleep calculator. Thanks, all.




As a lifetime member of the walking dead, the correct amount of sleep I get is never enough. My path to hell is paved with missed alarms, interrupted “executive” naps and an abject longing for the sweet embrace of the cold side of the pillow. If sleep is indeed the cousin of death, well that’s fine. I’ve always had a kink for morbidity in my bedfellows.

However, my sleep addiction seems to be waning somewhat. The amount that I’ve been dozing (sic) with myself doesn’t have the same grip on me as it once did. I wake up ever-tired, but no less refreshed. For all intents and purposes, my brain is comatose until boosted by my appropriated methadone, the cocoa bean. If I can’t score, the entirety of my day is a solemn march back toward bed, which is to say, that I’m suffering some sort of identity crisis.

What I need, to use the urban soubriquet, is better shit.

After the suggestions of a loose acquaintance (Google), I was pushed to meet with the shady unknown hands of people who apparently knew of a new formula to sate me. Less, but more accurate dosage. My feet stepped with metronome precision to my feelings of trepidation. Enter science, and the character I met, his bagless eyes indicating the legitimacy of his goods. According to the Sleep Calculator, the key is not breaking your circadian rhythms. On average you traipse through five or six sleep cycles an evening, averaging ninety minutes in duration. If you rise during said trip, you’re in for a bad time, man. The calculator measures said cycles, to ensure you don’t wake up wanting to punch a hole in the life that you’re solely responsible for.

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According to the science of the science, it takes an average of 14 minutes for the garden variety addict to ship off to the verdant poppy fields of subconsciousa, a figure that was neatly rolled into the numbers:

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Like Tony Montana throttled by the grip of his power, all I could do was stare at the theoretical mountain of pristine sleep in front of me in half-conscious wonderment. There was only one thing left to do, to roll down the arms of my pajamas and get down to business. Don’t you judge me.


Addendum: I woke the to the usual grating timbre of the electronic duck that accompanies my mornings, and as this message is written in the throes of first impulse, the effects are hard to measure. But I certainly do not hate everything around me. So I guess that’s something.



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