I was watching tv late at night when something weird happened.

I was overcome with hunger.

I'd been dozing in and out of whatever was happening on tv.

This is the way I usually drift off, watching tv, trying to stay awake for at least some of Letterman, whom I adore because he's smart and real and seemingly unaffected by the turns his life has taken.  And funny, hysterically funny.  He's the best advertisement we have for the Midwest, it seems to me.

I came to with a startle.  I was starving.

I keep a stash of fruit-flavored jellied candies on the floor between my bed and the nightstand.  I gulped them down, hardly chewing.

I ran to the fridge, grabbed the egg carton and some shredded cheese, melted some butter, whisked the eggs in a small bowl with kosher salt and freshly ground pepper, threw in a couple handfuls of cheese, threw everything into the skillet, washed the bowl and whisk, stirred the eggs a bit with a small wooden spoon, slid them onto a little dish, poured on some salsa verde, washed the pan, grabbed a fork, and ran back to bed.

I was missing Letterman, after.

I ate.

I reveled in eating.

When I woke up in the morning, I stared at the little dish and wondered, "Where did THAT come from?"

So all of this was retrospective weirdness.

Weirdness comes in many forms, some of them actually quite cool.