The exception to the rule is when I'm reading. I'll have my little reading light so that I won't disturb the mister, who gets along swimmingly with the sandman. It's completely impossible to keep any form of consciousness these days, once I stick my nose in a book. And the little reading light just keeps right on glowing its little brains out. After about a week it's no longer brainy enough for me to see anything. My nightstand drawer is stuffed full of dead reading lights. My side of the bed is where reading lights go to die.
When I was a kid, I though that all inanimate objects would come alive at night. Even something like a plastic screwcork had deep, complicated feelings in my world. My mother always wondered why it was so bloody hard to get me to throw anything away. I just didn't want to plummet things into depression.
If my childhood theory is correct, then I'm sure I'm an urban legend by now. Mother readinglights will tell their children to behave, or they'llend up in my nightstand drawer.
Of course, if my theory was correct, I would totally just puppy-mill the little buggers.
Maybe some day I'll get around to changing their batteries. But knowing me, probably not.
Also not helpful: I tried blogging this from my ipod while still in the comfort of my bed. Stupid ipod app posted on the wrong blog, of course. And then I had to get up and on my computer to fix the mess. Definitly awake now.