Tag: health

A Good Night’s Sleep Feels Like Winning The Lottery Anymore

On By Dean BrooksLeave a comment

How do chronically sleep-deprived workaholics function?

Oh, to be a sleeping kitten. Source: Midjourney

I’ve always been jealous of people who can operate on little to no sleep. People who live as if they have miniature nuclear power plants inside their chests. Your enterprising, multi-tasking Energizer Bunnies that just keep going and going.

Danielle Steel, the popular romance novelist, writes virtually non-stop, sleeping only for a few hours at a time. She hardly eats, too. I wrote about her insane work schedule a few years ago. The woman is a page-peddling Terminator.

Then there’s the Donald. I can’t believe the seemingly limitless energy Trump exhibits on the campaign trail. A three-hour conversation on a big podcast like The Joe Rogan Experience would exhaust me like a vampire at sunrise. He does that, then flies to a rally in Michigan and talks for another two hours. The guy is almost 80 years old.

Arnold Schwarzeneggar once scoffed at the idea that you need eight hours of sleep. You only need six according to him, which I suppose is all you can afford when you’re trying to be a seven-time Mr. Olympia, a Hollywood star, and the governor of California.

Are these people superpowered? Do they have Viltrumite DNA? Are they descendents of a race of gods that seeded this planet millions of years ago?

Or are they just using meth and they’re all secretly cranked out of their minds?

If I don’t get quality sleep I’m as useful as a two-legged stool. My mind turns into a beehive filled with wet sand. I become a cranky asshole yearning for sweet slumber between my silky sheets. I can power through the day, sure. But it’s a miserable slog. I’d rather have a cold than be sleep-deprived.

Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe it’s just will power. Or maybe it’s the brain’s ability to efficiently get quality sleep in a short amount of time.

Some people are able to lie down and go to sleep instantly. For me, sleep has always been a delicate balancing act. My brain is like a bratty teenaged diva. If everything doesn’t line up just perfectly you can just forget about it cooperating for a pleasant night’s sleep. Even when I do fall asleep I still wake up in the middle of the night and struggle to get back to bed. Sleep has always come in fits and starts for me. So much so that when I actually get a good night’s rest I feel like I won the Powerball.

Perhaps it’s too much screen time. Too much red light, or blue light, or any light. Maybe I need to get to bed earlier. I’m usually in bed by 9:45 pm and up at 5:30 am. I keep my room cool. The shades mainly keep it dark, but I suppose I could use thick curtains to block out the light totally. I’ve tried sleep shades and find they just bother my eyes.

Part of the reason I gave up drinking almost 8 years ago is because alcohol wrecks my sleep.

Lately, I’ve tried using sleep aids like ZzzQuil and it’s cheaper knock-offs. They kind of work, but I find they negatively affect my mood. Plus they make getting up harder as they take an hour or so to wear off after I wake up. I have to peel myself off the mattress when I’ve got a ZzzQuil hangover.

I’ve tried melatonin, but it wreaks havoc on my bowels.

I’ve tried to back engineer what I did the day before when I miraculously have a great night’s sleep. What did I eat? What time did I go to bed? Did I exercise? Did I read longer than usual? What? What??? It never matters. There’s no pattern.

A really bad night’s sleep is a living nightmare. It sucks. But it seems I’m cursed with never knowing the code to better Zzzzs.

I wouldn’t care if Freddy Krueger haunted my dreams if it meant I could be well rested the next day. I’ll take severe lacerations across my abdomen from finger knives over feeling like an exhausted meat puppet.

Here’s a fun fact: The brain supposedly “scrubs itself” while you sleep. Cerebrospinal fluid comes shooting up your brain stem like a pressure washer and squirts in-between your wrinkly lobes. This is supposed to wash out any gunk and keep your neurons well lubricated. So, when you get shitty sleep, you’re left with a dirty, unwashed, gunky brain, and neurons that look about as organized as rush hour traffic in downtown Manhattan.

I had three crappy night’s sleeps in a row until last night. This morning I might as well have awoken with an “S” on my chest. I feel great today. But what about tomorrow? Nobody wins the lottery everyday.

Well, I’m off to bed soon. Wish me luck.

Source: Midjourney

Join A Class Action Lawsuit To Fight A Horrendous, Unimaginable, Unspeakable Evil

On By Dean BrooksLeave a comment

Should I join in this fight for “justice?”

The vile culprit. Photo by author.

A few weeks ago I got an email from Amazon alerting me that I’m party to a class action lawsuit against Clif Bar & Company.

You know Clif Bars, I’m sure. Those little brown rectangular granola “sustained energy” bars that cost way too much. The bougie version of those super crumbly Nature Valley bars. The bars with the wrapper that shows some guy mountain climbing that makes you think, “Oh my God, if I eat these I could be a mountain climber, too.”

Well evidently, Clif Bars has gone and done something heinous. Something awful. Something so terrible that some guy named Ralph Milan went and filed a class action lawsuit against the company.

What did Clif Bars do? Did they fiendishly put fentanyl in select bars, hoping to cull part of the active granola-eating population like some mad comic book villain? Did they replace some bars with plastic explosive set to detonate when the wrappers were opened? Did they replace the raisins with the calcified bodies of cockroaches?

What devilishly malicious scheme did Clif Bars do to warrant the ire of Ralph?

Apparently, Clif Bars did this, according to the settlement website (bold face mine):

A proposed settlement has been reached against Clif Bar & Company (“Clif Bar”) in an action alleging that Defedant violated certain laws in labeling its Clif Bars and ZBars with claims that made the products seem healthy, when Plaintiffs allege they were unhealthy due to their added sugar content. Clif Bar denies any wrongdoing of any kind and maintains that its products are not unhealthy due to added sugar content and that the statements on its Clif Bars’ and ZBars’ labeling are true and not misleading.

Holy shit, this is worse than anything I previously mentioned. Clif Bars alleged on their packaging that their products were “healthy” when in fact they were not healthy because of added sugar content.

This is like a personal 9/11. I eat Clif Bars all the time at work!

I’m a victim of Clif Bar’s vile and evil masterplan to sell overpriced and oversugared granola bars. I too was swindled, deceived, hoodwinked, made a fool, and poisoned with slightly excess sugar, all while believing I was consuming a healthy snack. It’s a travesty. A disaster. A traumatic edible experience from which I’ll likely never recover.

Much to my alarm, I still had the toxic treats in my kitchen when I received this email. Luckily, I had a biohazard suit hanging nearby (it’s a long story) and was able to discard the dangerous packaged rectangles of doom into an outdoor dumpster. I just hope the raccoons don’t find them. What if they eat them and mutate like the ninja turtles and that green ooze? I’m not Splinter. I can’t train a pack of mutant trash pandas to fight crime! I don’t know the first thing about kung-fu.

Clif Bars has already made a settlement for their atrocious misdeed. They’re paying, get this, $12,000,000. All I have to do is file a claim and I too could get a slice of that (non-sugary) pie. That’s a lot of cheddar for a lot of improperly-advertised granola.

Should I join this class action lawsuit? Should I file a claim and take the fight to Big Granola? I feel like Luke Skywalker flying down that trench and getting ready to fire a proton missile into the ventilation shaft. I feel like Neo learning to control the Matrix. Jake Sully fighting the imperialist humans in Avatar. You get the idea.

Of couse, I still have the right to sue Clif Bars myself. And now that I think about it, maybe I should. Afterall, their packaging still says their bars offer “sustained energy.” Except whenever I’ve eaten them, I’ve never had what I would call “sustained” energy. Energy, yes. But NOT sustained. More like very fleeting energy. Sounds like I have grounds for a massive lawsuit right there. Shall we say, ten million to begin, to ease my pain and suffering?

Then there’s the packaging itself. Showing some guy mountain climbing. I’ve never once felt the need or ability to go mountain climbing while eating Clif Bars. In fact, I think if I did, I’d probably fall and kill myself, despite eating a Clif Bar beforehand. So is Clif Bar & Company trying to kill me? Sounds like attempted manslaughter right there, though I’m no lawyer. That’s another easy ten mil or so.

I’m glad Amazon alerted me to Clif Bar’s pure evil, and about my chance to cash in big on this wretched and outrageous criminal enterprise.

Have you eaten Clif Bars, too? Did you survive? Are you a sad victim and entitled to compensation? I’ll see you at the Rolls-Royce dealership when the settlement check clears.

What’s Killing The Dating Scene? Could It Be Because Everyone’s A Lard Ass?

On By Dean BrooksLeave a comment

It’s hard to swipe right when both hands are holding ice cream cones, no?

Made with Midjourney

I was in the middle of writing my article about whether men should wait until they are financially secured before getting married when I thought, “Wait a minute, what about all the fat dudes? Who cares if you’ve got some cheddar in the bank if you’re a gigantic blob?”

It then also occurred to me how when you get down to it, most people don’t really care about material possessions and money when it comes to attraction. They care if they find you “hot.” They care if they find you physically attractive. This isn’t just men. Women do, too.

Are women at home fantasizing about Chris Hemsworth, or Danny DeVito? Are men at home thinking about Sydney Sweeney, or Rosie O’Donnell?

Of course, plenty of supermodel-quality women go for rich hippo-sized uggo dudes all the time. But we’re not talking about obvious gold diggers or pay-for-play marriage arrangements. We’re talking about your average everyday relationships. Most people want someone who looks good and turns them on.

Well, here’s the problem. It’s kind of hard to be your best sexy self when you’ve got a hundred pounds of blubber wrapped over your frame like a sports mascot outfit.

This is a serious issue. Something like 75% of people in America are overweight. Almost 40% are obese. OBESE. As in that girl Violet who ate the three-course-meal chewing gum in Willy Wonka and then “blew up like a balloon.”

Those statistics are not just for older adults who are well past the prime dating age. They’re nearly across the board for all adults. Male and female. Even young people in the hot spot of the mating zone.

Years ago when I went back to college to finish my degree I could not believe the number of overweight women I saw on campus. I’m not talking the “freshman 15” here. I’m talking both ass cheeks hanging over the side of the classroom chair. I’m talking pear-shaped plumpernutters. There were plenty of hefty guys, too. Guys with sagging beer bellies. It should be illegal to look like that until you’re at least 45 and have a mortgage and three kids.

At my job at the time, I worked on occasion with an 18-year-old girl whose legs were thicker than my waist. She would come in to work carrying bags of McDonald’s, slurping on Starbucks milkshakes, and then actually complain to others about her weight problems. One time I asked her if she needed help with something work-related, to which she replied, unprompted about the subject, “Yeah, how about you take some of my fat?” I then suggested maybe she should make nutritious food at home instead of always ordering Mcdonald’s. To which she laughed and looked at me like I was insane. I was actually sad, aghast, and brokenhearted inside. All of 18, and she was already hopelessly lost down a dark alley of Big Macs and Big Gulps.

Here’s the thing. Obesity and overweightedness is a (literally) big deal. It affects your health in every negative way. It gives you early diabetes, heart problems, cardiovascular problems, breathing issues, cancer, and wreaks havoc on your joints. Not to mention the most obvious one — it makes you look far less attractive.

Obesity also saps your libido and can harm your reproductive abilities, too.

No wonder the population is declining rapidly. No wonder young people aren’t banging each other anymore. No wonder dating apps are dead. Have you been on any dating app recently? Let’s be honest. How many people did you see on there who WEREN’T fat? Not that many, right? I’m not trying to be funny. It’s legit part of the reason I deleted my accounts a long time ago. It was Cellulite City on there. Gross, no thanks. I don’t need to spend $35 a month just to be flooded with the roundular daughters of the Michelin Man. I’ll wait for my Uma Thurman sexbot instead.

Everyone wants to blame feminism, the Red Pill, toxic masculinity, the disappearance of third places, the hectic modern lifestyle, the economy, the reduction of religion, eroding traditions, and many other reasons for the death of dating and mating. But I think it’s much simpler. People have turned into disgusting fatasses.

Look, I’ll be the first to admit I’m no Brad Pitt. I’m more a darker-complexioned Justin Long. I do make the effort to stay in shape, though. I do what I can with what I got. Being hot is not everything in a relationship. But letting yourself become a blimp will not help.

It’s hard to get out there and clap cheeks when you can barely squeeze your cheeks out the front door, you know?

Donating Blood Can Help You Overcome Trypanophobia (Fear of Needles)

On By Dean BrooksLeave a comment

In addition to other benefits.

Yesterday marked my 32nd or 33rd lifetime blood donation to the Red Cross. I’ve lost count on the exact number. Most of my donations were whole blood. Others were double red cell donations. This is where an apheresis machine is used to collect your red cells, while returning your plasma and other fluids. So those visits count as two donations in one shot.

So far, my lifetime donation amount is over four gallons, which is almost the total amount of blood that’s in the human body (3.5–5 gallons).

I’ve been giving blood to the Red Cross since I was a junior in high school. I had just turned 17, and it just so happened my school was holding a blood drive in April right after my birthday. I didn’t need parental permission to donate. I did, however, need permission from my lifelong fear of needles.

My needle phobia probably goes back to a traumatic episode I encountered as a child. When I was four or five I was running around my chrch when I tripped and smacked my forehead right on the corner of a wall.

I don’t remember exactly what happened next. But I do recall waking up and being strapped to a hospital bed while doctors were trying to stitch my bleeding wound together, kicking and screaming, and trying to escape, while they held me down. This was the mid ’80s, so it was before they used tape. They had to sew my skin back together with a needle and thread. I’m not sure if I had to get any shots, but the experience with the needle so close to my eyes and skin certainly freaked me out.

The visit left a mark on me. Literally and psychologically. I still have a scar on my forehead. I was left with not only trypanophobia but with another fear. To this day I feel deeply uncomfortable in rooms or places where I feel trapped, especially if there are people I don’t know inside. Such as in small classrooms or office rooms. This is why I try to sit near the door. It’s not exactly claustrophobia. I do just fine in elevators and stairwells and other enclosed places. It’s more about fighting the irrational fear of suddenly becoming unable to escape. Or perhaps it’s more a social phobia.

When my high school had the blood drive, I saw it as an opportunity to overcome my decades-long fear of needles. So, I signed up. I’d never given blood before. I’d only had immunization shots and a tetanus shot. I’d had surgery twice. I was no stranger to medical places. But I’d certainly never had a syringe inserted into my arm of my own free will. I wasn’t terrified. But I wasn’t exactly in love with the idea either.

When my turn came I must have lucked out with a good phlebotomist, because I don’t recall there being much of a sting or any pain. Inserting a syringe into a vein is a delicate art. Sometimes if it’s done just right, it’s virtually painless, and leaves almost no mark. I’ve had good and bad experiences with needle sticks.

In my donation yesterday my vein was less cooperative than usual. Though it may have been a bad needle stick, too. In either case, a technician had to stand there and manually hold the syringe in place, sometimes moving it ever so slightly, in order to maintain my blood flow. A condition that would have been absolutely untenable for me previously when syringes filled me with wracking dread. Now it’s just more of an inconvenience.

Bottom line is that stepping out of our comfort zone is often the best way to overcome fears or flaws. While I still struggle with small rooms with people I don’t know, I have been able to give public presentations and participate as needed. It’s not as overwhelming a fear as it was before.

I’m glad I was able to cure my trypanophobia, especially by doing something that’s very good for society. Blood is constantly needed, especially during national emergencies. So, I encourage everyone to give if they can.