It’s 2.49am and I can’t sleep.

I went to bed at roughly 11pm and had a dream that violated almost all the copyrights of the movie Jawbreaker even down to the Verruca Salt song that’s playing in my head, and apparently that’s enough for my body. Apparently I don’t need anymore sleep tonight.

But the thing is that I am bloody exhausted. Tired as a Beau Repairs shop. Weary as a Dunlop. Worn out as a … thing that is worn a lot. My eyes are actually sore and I am 103.4 per cent sure that I am squinting like I am starting into the sun. I need to go back to sleep and it needs to happen in the next four minutes because it’s 2.56am and I can’t handle staying awake past 3am on a Sunday without having worn something shiny while drinking the weight of a medium-sized dog in pre-mixed alcohol and cheap sparkling wine.

So naturally I decided the only thing to help me out was to switch on my laptop and stare at a glowing screen. I read somewhere that if you’re struggling to sleep you should do something other than try to sleep for 20 minutes and I don’t really feel like mopping right now so this is my alternative.

The rationale behind starting up my computer and opening a blank Word Document was that I am obviously awake for some grand reason; like I’ll have a sudden realisation of truth and purpose at the keyboard which will change my life. In reality, I’ve already logged on to Facebook and flicked through one of those questions web stories about the top discontinued Macca’s foods (I’m sorry, but what the fuck ever happened to Fruit Fizz? Whoever made the suggestion to pull that one from the menu and out of our hearts deserves to have every seventh apple they bite into be mushy and floury) and a gallery of proud dog parents. I’ve also turned on my Facebook chat – something I rarely do because I can’t take the pressure of having to engage thanks to that “seen” notification – in the hope a drunken acquaintance decides to dabble in a bit of early morning banter after their normal, fun Saturday night.

I don’t think I’m alone in turning to social media for some form of life-changing experience, or at least something to prompt a real-life occurrence of interest. But tonight the only realisation I’ve had is that I’m a bit of a twit and that the reason I happen to only watch reality television or talk shows these days is because I have the tendency to think in episodes and exposing myself to that sort of shit is damaging to my mental health. Watching scripted television is fantastic but it’s given me the false impression that life is an interesting set of experiences all neatly wrapped up around one theme.

In the back of my mind I am always thinking about how what I am doing would tie into an episode and what the voiceover would be saying. I’m trying to pinpoint which people in my life would be major characters and where certain events would fall in terms of the narrative arc of each hour-long primetime slot (because obviously a show about me would be put on at the same time to take on My Kitchen Rules and by god it would wipe that grin of Paleo Pete’s gaunt face). It’s actually becoming a bit of a problem for me in that I look for patterns and themes in my day-to-day life to try to suss out the topic of whatever completely fictional and delusional episode I happen to be in. Is it a sad one? Is it upbeat? Does it have a takeaway message that will empower young professional women? This all sounds very Abed from Community, except instead of being cleverly meta, I’m just a pathetic deludednoid. I am constantly trying to link small occurrences into a overarching concept through semi-original storylines. My head is one big sheet of butcher’s paper with a whole heap of lazily-drawn storyboards linked frantically to vague plotlines by a confusing spider’s web of red texta arrows. I suppose it doesn’t help that I actually try to turn my life into some form of entertaining series through this indulgent online format.

In the past few minutes a notification has popped up on my Facebook feed, which has reinforced the whole “my life is an episode of a witty, underrated show with an incredibly articulate and well-dressed lead character who is likeably flawed” idea. This just might be the adventure I am looking for:

A person I don’t know liked a photo I posted featuring two of my friends and not me.

In my head I can warp this into a couple of plotlines, but the consistent predominant theme is that sitting on Facebook in the early hours of the morning hoping for something meaningful is all kinds of pathetic.

But that’s not the message I want to wrap up on before the credits roll, so I decided to have another spin in this game of life and scroll through Facebook for one last punch to the guts. And boy did it deliver.

One of my bucket-hatted, moustache-rocking friends had his mate film him talking about fishing on a jetty at Fraser Island like he was in his own fucking television show. There his is, rig fully out, talking to an imaginary audience. And while it’s all filmed on a slightly shaky iPhone, there are two episodes and the promise of more. You can’t make this stuff up.

Here’s episode one:

And here’s the second glorious installment:

So clearly I’m not alone in my episodic thinking. Obviously I am friends with the next big thing to hit television like the Scotty Cam, Big Marn and Karl Stefonovic hybrid the world has been fanging for since the dawning of time. Obviously, my delusions are anything but.

I now feel wildly optimistic, because not only did I just watch roughly one minute of open Hawiian-shirted gold, but I also have a conclusion after my intro, build-up and climax which all fits nicely into one little theme. I even have a take home message for your guys sitting in the lounge room of my imagination. But you have to work that one out yourself, because we can’t always write the script in the episodes of our lives but we sure as shit can overthink ourselves to some kind of bulshit resolution that fulfils a need to legitimise our irrational behaviour.

Now I can go back to bed.