Improving my sleep has become my newest hobby, mostly because my other hobbies (snacking, worrying, and reorganizing the junk drawer) weren’t helping. So I’ve developed a system. A dumb system. A system so dumb it loops back around and becomes almost impressive. For starters, I now perform a nightly ritual where I open the refrigerator and stare into it like it’s a portal to another dimension. I don’t take anything out. I don’t put anything in. I just stand there, letting the cold air hit my face while I contemplate whether leftover potato salad can teach me inner peace. It can’t. But the staring helps.

I’ve also decided my mattress needs “rotation,” which is a fancy way of saying If I flip it around and pretend I’ve accomplished something. The mattress is roughly the weight of a small elk, so the process is less “refreshing sleep hygiene” and more “accidental strength training.” After, I feel proud, even though the mattress feels exactly the same and my spine continues to complain.

Then there are the pillows. I now sleep with five of them, each serving a purpose I made up on the spot. One is for my head. One is for emotional support. One is to keep the emotional support pillow from getting too clingy. One is a mystery pillow whose origins I cannot explain. And one immediately falls to the floor and stays there until morning, fulfilling its destiny. I don’t know if this improves my sleep, but it does make my bed look like a low‑budget pillow fort.

Breathing exercises were supposed to help, too. I tried that inhale‑hold‑exhale routine everyone talks about. I inhaled for four seconds, held for seven, and then got distracted thinking about lasagna. By the time I remembered I was supposed to exhale, the moment had passed. I’m pretty sure the point is to try, though, and I did try, so I’m counting it as progress.

Eventually I lie down and attempt actual sleep. This is when my brain decides to host its nightly talent show. It asks important questions like “Did you lock the door?” and “What if raccoons can pick locks?” and “Why do humans have toes?” It also enjoys replaying embarrassing moments from decades ago, just to keep things spicy. But eventually, somehow, I drift off — not gracefully, more like a tranquilized moose collapsing in a meadow.

In the morning, I wake up feeling refreshed until I realize I’ve slept diagonally across the bed like a confused starfish. Still, I consider it an improvement. My sleep may not be perfect, but it’s better than it was, and at least now I have a system. A dumb system. But a system nonetheless.

IF YOU BELIEVE THIS, YOU MAY BE A CANIDATE FOR THIS BRIDGE I HAVE FOR SALE.