SLEEP IS my drug of choice.
If I sleep well, life is a beautiful song, with me on lead vocals and backing harmonies from the Little River Band (1981 lineup).
If I don’t sleep well, I am grumpy, stupid, each individual vertebra aches, my arms are numb and my complexion resembles that of the Nazi officer in “Raiders of the Lost Ark” right before his face melts off.
Given this, you might assume I have invested lots of time and energy finding the perfect mattress.
Instead, I viewed occasionally useless arms and a melting face as a less painful alternative to navigating the ever-expanding, impenetrable Mattress Industrial Complex (MIC) with its countless stuffing options, firmness levels, delivery windows and gratuitous use of the word Avocado, an actual mattress brand, to refer to something you sleep on.