Jesup couldn't sleep. That is to say, he wouldn't sleep. He was fully capable of climbing into his bed, with it's Transformers sheets, and succumbing to the onslaught of onconciousness, he mererly chose not to. He knew that if he did, he would have those dreams again. They weren't nightmares, at least not in the traditional sense. He certainly didn't wake up afraid of anything. In fact, when he finally did wake up, he could never remember what the dream was about, only that he didn't like it. It didn't seem to matter, though, he hadn't sleep at all in the past two days and he felt fine.
He rubbed his hands across his three-day growth of beard. If he had a real job, he might actually care about shaving, but as it stood, the only person he had to impress was himself, and he was easily impressed. He was impressed by a Hot Pocket. How something can go from a frozen block of ice to a piping hot, slice of pizza conveniently wrapped up in it's own pouch in two and a half minutes was, in his mind, a triumph of mankind. If they could only figure out a way to do the same thing with buffalo wings, he'd be set for life.
For some reason, I've basically had those tw paragraphs running throguh my head, knowing that they would be a great start to a short story, or novel, or something. Not that I can write a short story, or novel, but I had to write it down to get it out of my head.