I was a bit anxious, so although I'd followed all of my doctor's suggested relaxation preparations, I found sleep difficult to come by. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness and I stared around my room, following cracks in the ceiling as I waited for the drug to kick in. As my eyes panned across my bedroom, I noticed that some of the items on my nightstand were moving. My lamp, my Japanese music box, my l'Occitane lotion, my alarm clock. They were swaying and dancing in the dim moonlight, and eventually began singing to me. Yes folks, I was hallucinating. Hard core. My nightstand guardians continued their very "Be Our Guest" song and dance number until I drifted off to sleep, and I remembered hoping that this soothing animatronic lullaby would become a nightly tradition.
The next few times I took Ambien before bed, I tried to stay awake in the hopes that Lumiere and Cogsworth would make another appearance. This led to a number of unforgettable moments in my apartment (which are actually sort of forgettable, since the Ambien made my memory quite foggy). They involved: falling asleep in the fetal position face down on my couch (see first photo for reference), placing affectionate phone calls to the people in my life that I love oh so very much (way more extreme than a drunk dial), and falling ass over teakettle into my bathtub and struggling about like a beetle on its back. Why do I share this story? Because I'm still obsessing over this editorial from last January's Vogue Girl Korea. Not only because it's hauntingly beautiful, but because, girl, I've been there.