Ambien Hour
Before we begin, you should know this:
I have a house full of emotionally complex plushies.
They are not just toys.
They have backstories.
Grudges.
Alliances.
Sacred snacks.
I also have an ice machine I am unreasonably attached to,
a dog named Mac with gastrointestinal issues,
and a complicated relationship with Ambien.
Sometimes, late at night, all of these things converge into something surreal and holy.
This is one of those nights.
This is the record of one night,
spun from Ambien and corn and the silent diplomacy of plushes.
⸻
It began, as many sacred things do,
with a Chipotle bowl intended for four grown men.
I consumed it alone.
Not out of hunger.
But necessity.
The kind that comes from managing interdimensional hydration strategies
and spiritual burrito maintenance.
I was catching up.
On corn.
⸻
Two feral beasts snored in stereo:
Mac the dog,
king of forbidden cheese dreams,
and Jason,
the nasal symphony of regret.
Their war raged,
nostril against nostril.
I ascended the stairs and fell up them.
Not by mistake.
By design.
⸻
It was then that my teeth became chess pieces.
My molars, immovable rooks.
My incisors, front-line pawns.
My canines?
Knights.
Chaotic.
Pointed.
Ready to leap at diagonals of crisis.
This was not oral hygiene.
This was strategy.
⸻
Aladdin was summoned.
Not the Disney one exactly,
but a twilight version who glowed faintly from ice machine light
and smelled like sandalwood and intention.
He brushed the chess pieces with reverence,
sang softly while conditioning my hair with monk-forged serums,
and whispered affirmations like:
“You are not unemployed. You are between missions.”
“You are not broken. You are emotionally modular.”
⸻
Then came Shramp.
Not Snackle.
Shramp.
First of his name.
Wielder of pink.
Bearer of the Glazed Wheel.
Created in the Target Clearance multiverse,
anointed with strawberry frosting,
emotionally loaded and dead-eyed.
He did not speak.
He held his donut.
He existed.
⸻
Abu, tiny monkey anarchist, met Shramp
across the soft battlefield of midnight.
They exchanged donuts.
They formed a pact.
They were not sidekicks.
They were sovereigns.
Their power came not from fluff—
but from resolve, and a faint factory scent of synthetic strawberries.
Their purpose:
• Protect me.
• Maintain snack justice.
• Whisper affirmations laced with sugar.
⸻
But peace is fragile in the House of Helen.
Helen Judith Fox—
my emotionally unstable Pop-Tart plush—
watched.
Judged.
Strawberry-seamed, loop-armed, and jealous.
She had been the original.
The chosen.
And now?
A sidelined icon
with a memory full of betrayal and crumbs.
I offered her a gift: Paul.
Banana-suited.
Permanently fetal.
Eyes stitched wide with unprocessed grief.
Helen did not soften.
But she shifted.
Just enough to let him sit near her.
⸻
Cue the score: Requiem for a Dream (Plush Edition).
No words.
Just frosting.
Just fear.
Just the slow crinkle of polyester trauma
being quietly witnessed.
And above it all,
the ice machine dropped a single cube.
A signal.
A benediction.
A truth.
⸻
This was the Ambien hour.
And no one was safe.