Sleep apnea is either a disease, or a disorder where “pauses” occur in your breathing while sleeping.  In other words, you’re trying to suffocate yourself.  It’s like you’re involuntarily playing pulmonary chicken with yourself.  You’re choking yourself like a chicken, I, unlike everyone else, just said.

Other than just constantly waking up all the fucking time, a person can get official papers proving they are into the pulmonary equivalent of bondage by having a polysomnogram.  Polysomnogram does not mean a polygamist let you feel all of his wives tits, and rate them using a series of celestial bodies.  It does not mean there was an orgy of breast cancer awareness at the radiologist’s office.  It does not mean you had something about boobs stitched on a towel, or piece of clothing suitable for high falutin’ catered affairs.  It is simply a sleep study.  Sleep study does not describe a student snoring with their head down at a desk in the library at 2:13 a.m. during finals week.  It does mean you show up at the hospital late in the p.m., get all tethered up to primary colored wires via the application of the dermatological equivalent of super glue, and fall asleep.  Your sleeping is monitored via closed circuit sleep-v, and the wires essentially give a neurological polygraph proving you’re choking yourself (or that you’re lying about choking yourself).  When you wake up the next morning, a doctor comes in the room to tell you if you passed or failed, and what your score is.  A “clinically significant” apnea level is where you attempt to snore yourself to death 5 or more times during an hour.  Some in the unlearned and completely falsified knowledge community refer to this as being “attemptedly massively suicidal”.  It’s like your lungs stutter, and are trying to kill you like a fucking character in the “Director’s Cut” of Goodfellas.

Before I go any farther, I’m going to put this in the terms of the greatest man to ever sport a jerri curl and blue jean overalls simultaneously.  “You’re goddamn right, I got this too.”  If you don’t know who Buddy Guy is, well Buddy, all I can tell you is that this Guy is one bad motherfucker.  He’s such a bad motherfucker, people go get DNA tests after they see him live just to make sho he didn’t fuck their momma cause it damn sure felt good.  Anyway, after you’ve been diagnosed as a Bedtime Strangler, you get fitted with something that’s a little bit Darth Vader and a little bit Scuba Diver.  This monstrosity is called a CPAP Machine.  No, you don’t have air tubes shoved up your genitals, and no stirrups of the gynecological or baseball variety are involved.  This is a machine that provides Constant Positive Airway Pressure.  Sounds like something that overcharges your for tiny bottles of liquor, and will give you worthless frequent breather miles doesn’t it?

The machine itself looks like a 1960’s vacuum.  Instead of a medical supply store you’d think some dude with a JC Penny suit, an old bowler hat, and an Eddie Haskel-like persona guilted and/or conned you into buying it so they would get the fuck off your stoop.  It also has an equally old school, smaller vacuum-like hose made out of see through plasticish elastic shit.  It looks like the last pair of drawers you thought you could easily rip off of who or whatever, only to cause them a low degree burn and you to question both your strength and dietary habits.  The shit looks flimsy as hell, but it gets you all the oxymoron you need to allow you to sleep through the night – while forgetting how ignorant it is that you try to pull the plug on your own breathe bags on a hourly basis.  The mask does have the “however you’d spell Darth Vader’s breathing” sound.  It also makes you sound like Admiral Greer when you talk.  If you open your mouth with the mask on, you can feel air pushing through your throat and nose.  It’s like getting an air dick shoved up your throat, and into your sinuses.

The hardness and tubular aspects of the mask also makes sleeping in any position other than “visitation style” impossible.  If you try to roll over on a side, you’re going to cut off the PAP and be tangled up and blue quicker than a Bob Dylan impersonator who had a net thrown over them while trying to escape the Looney Bin.  Sleeping face down is going to keep your head at a higher level, and give your face a long lasting imprint that’ll make all the boys in the band think you blew the biggest triangle player in the Tri Global area.  The goddamn thing only made sleeping impossible for me before I went back to trying to kill myself softly every night.  I wake up so much, there are some times when I wish that racist Fugee Lauren Hill would come and put me out of misery.  You can also try these rubber nostril implant like things that are attached to what looks like the straps you saw on braces in the movies.  They are to sleep deprived nerds what Lebron James is to basketball players.  I’m not even sure that made sense, but I haven’t slept in a while so what the fuck do you expect?  The nostril implants are referred to in the industry as “nasal pillows”.  Big, soft natural tits are what I think of when the word “pillows” is used.  Nasal makes me think of that branch of the military with those sperm-like uniforms.  Mix them together and I don’t come up with a soft, rubbery mechanism designed to fit comfortably in my nostrils to facilitate continuous breathing.  My math equals some member of the armed forces trying to facial my nasals.  Beyond the physicality involved with being able to sleep, you can tell I’ve got way too fucked up of a mind to handle any of this type of shit.

Well, if you can’t tell, I can’t go to sleep.  I wish I could get to sleep so I could start trying to strangle myself, because sleeping in between involuntary strangulation is still sleeping, no matter how you wrap your hands around it.  Sleep Apnea sounds like a minor mountain chain in the Himalayas by the way.  And Himalayas sounds like the name of a tranny version of that chick from Star Wars with the danishes on the side of her head.  Tranny makes me wonder which Transfomer is gay?  And with that inability to turn off my mind, I bid you a happy audios.

Sleep, strangle and the Bangles…