bro my teacher’s not replying to my texts and i have to go to sleep AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
My answer
Oh dear god. Not again! I'd recognise that scream anywhere!
You’re not "Norme", are you?
Geez bro. I never get a moment's peace from you and your ilk! Stop texting me! For the thousandth time, I'm NOT your teach ...
... Okay. Shit. This is going public, isn't it! So looks like we'll all need teensily more context and backstory. Stand by, suckahs.
For those readers not in the know: "Norme" and more than a few other gents have, at one time or another, either attempted or held the Guinness World Record for the longest time someone’s ever gone without sleep.
But the Guinness World Records book/organisation stopped tracking this record in 1997. Why? No, it’s not because they've judged Racism-Against-Sleep as one of those absurdly overspecialised records that wastes everyone’s time. You know the type. "Longest Time Spent Underarm-Squelchie-Ing Big Ole Butt Whilst Playing Guitar Hero 3 On Expert Mode And Being Painted Turquoise By The Pope." That bullshit.
Nah. It’s deadly. Sleep is vital. Too long spent without sleep can wreck you. When Guinness abandoned its tracking of this record, the existing holder was one Robert McDonald. At 18 days, 21 hours, 40 minutes. Holy shit. Eighteen consecutive all-nighters. Eighteen. I can still remember my own pre-teen fascination with completing just one. To my juvenile psyche, staying up ALL NIGHT seemed the height of grown-up sophistication and glamour. Oooh yes please.
I've since completed three. That's three solitary one-nighters spaced years apart, mind you, NOT one hat-trick of three consecutives. And OH GOD. Never again! Their novelty for me has well and truly worn off. Two of those three involved some admittedly rather wild partying, and I regret neither the partying nor the all-nighter-ing, but oh good lord. You're a wreck for days afterwards.
That's from just one all-nighter. Eighteen in a row? After just two or three, I'd be throwing my own poo at people. After five, I'd likely re-enact that video of a hammerhead worm attacking and digesting a slug, but chances are, in my snoozy delirium, I'd lose track of which entity was which; attempt to play both creepy-crawlies at once like Monty Python's Graham Chapman in a championship wrestling match against himself; and barf corrosive stomach acid across my own naughty bits. Come on. If you'd undergone five consecutive all-nighters, wouldn't you? Prove me wrong if you dare.
So that Guinness link above? Wow. It makes for morbidly fascinating reading. It tracks these previous decades of world record attempts. It tracks the medical side effects suffered by those attempting it. All kinds of crap. Good lord. We're talking hallucinations, weight loss, paranoia, delusions, ever more severe microsleeps, both during the event, and for years after.
In 1997, Guinness thus eventually decided they couldn't sanction record attempts so danger-fraught. They've rebuffed record-attempt claimants thereafter.
But you still get fame-0-philic dumdums, don’t you. Morons who yearn for ever-greater anti-snoozles grandeur. Check out that "Norme" link again. Check out that Guinness article again. Check out their histories of the record's claimants. And their occupations.
Detect you a THEME, yeah? We've got multiple instances of DJing. A public rocking-chair marathon. Twitch streaming. Publicity hounds, the lot of 'em! They seek medical augmentation in their insomnibids for wakeful FAME. Hah. They're attention hogs. They're fame junkies. They deem no publicity stunt too danger-fraught if perchance it returns them RESULTS. They'd readily resurrect Madame Guillotine in all her salami-slicey glory if they thought live-streaming the death spasms of their own detached heads might shatter another streaming record. Actually come to think of it, that's a distinct possibility, and these narcissistic cretins likely google their own names every eleven friggin' seconds, so they'll almost certainly read this and get IDEAS, so perhaps I shouldn't enable them.
Nosleep record-attempters latch on to any tactical edge within their grasp, be such edges medical or nonmedical. Most legit docs won’t touch them with a barge pole, for the same reason as Guinness.
Such chumps thus seek out those media personalities broadcasting a more ... er, unorthodox bent. The lateral thinkers. The mavericks. The renegades. And badger them for sweet sweet sleep-trouncer tips.
Guess who these pricks torment most?
I mean sure. I realise my Sexyverse Advice exertions have carved out for me quite the unique niche. Multiple reviewers have independently (I think?) proclaimed my Nonsense to be the most original content they'd ever encountered. They ask me how I can possibly think up this bullshit. I ... honestly don't really have an answer! My brain just seems wired that way. Ideas hit constantly and I broadcast the best ones. God. It's tremendous fun. I love writing them.
But holy moly I cannot deny such content's Side Effects. Crackpots swarm me for Ideas, for Inspiration, for Tips. And of course Advice. I can't begrudge them the latter, as all my posts' footers loudly and explicitly invite readers to propose and request exactly that. Fair enough, then.
Most Advice requests remain staid and conventional. Some really, really don't. The occasional Advice requester seems to consider me the Dr. Theodor Morell to their Adolf Hitler: Morell was Hitler's official doctor, and for several years "prescribed" Hitler hideous quantities of cocaine and opiates, to allow Hitler to continue chugging along beneath the stupendous stresses of masterminding World War II.
Sleep-phobe Numpties thus throng my Sexyverse Advice advice-queue like Neo-Nazis gridlocking a USA Republican Party convention's restrooms' glory holes. Most fancy themselves mad-scientist-boffin Total Renegades, with unique Maniacal Laughter signatures to match, which they take great professional pleasure in broadcasting at ear-splitting volume.
Guess who rocks an 17-character "A"-chain? Like that in this article's Question? Norme, that's who.
"Paracetamol". Dude. Come on. For the THOUSANDTH TIME, I'm not your primary school teacher! Stop texting me! In the last five minutes alone, I'd received 572 texts from you. You're having yet another livestreamed crack at the World Sleep Record, aren't you. You're hallucinating. Once again, your exhaustion-addled mind is going friggin' nuts. All this AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA malarkey. So many bullshit texts!
So I'll address your most common themes and maybe that'll shut you up.
*ahem*
I'm not your teacher. Zebras aren't 50%-racist ponies. Birds aren't a CIA plot to make poodles skeptical of gravity. RuPaul isn't the Loch Ness Monster. Wanking doesn't cause leprosy. Reggae wasn't invented by Napoleon farting in the bath. Leprosy doesn't cause wanking. Jesus didn't denounce Spongebob Squarepants. The velociraptors from Jurassic Park didn't monetise wedgies. Jews can twerk but shouldn't. Camembert isn't bisexual. Sauron doesn't fear burkinis. Bagpipes are actually quite nice. Lava lamps aren't extra-sarcastic Buddhists. Bagpipe music is horrific shite. Barnacle penises aren't an insult to human penises. Neutrinos aren't sexist. Scratching only one's left testicle doesn't prevent earthquakes. Glasgow can't break the sound barrier. Women aren't PMSing men. I think. Johnny Depp isn't an inside-out Oprah Winfrey. Nasal hair can't yodel. Ghana doesn't hate Jeeps. Your mum does love you. Apple Watches aren't a Catholic plot against soul patches. Black men also can't jump. And eighteen consecutive all-nighters, Norme/Paracetamol/Gigawanker, are eighteen Too Damn Many.
There! Done. I've addressed your texts. You now have my Formal Permission to sleep. Problem solved, suckah 😘