Of course, right now I am in that drowsy state, surfing the net, whiling away my time instead of wisely snuggling under the covers. Instead of closing my eyes I strain them staring at the yellowing screen of my computer.

Reading over my latest letter, I find myself reminiscing to the boy about my sleeping habits.

As a child I was terrified of the dark, especially after watching those old HongKong Mr Vampire movies. They were horrifying to a child, even the ones that spoofed the genre. Those Qing-dynasty-costumed hopping undead scared me half to death, especially since the only religious icon capable of repelling them resided in the living room and not in my room. I would watch the shadows outside the window and convince myself that the shadow of a bunch of leaves was actually the tuft of feathers on the cap of the costume of the undead corpse. I would hold my breath, until I couldn't take it anymore and snatched oxygen in short bursts of relief, because everyone knew that the undead hunted by the scent of living breath. (Probably the concentration of carbon monoxide, but explained away by the vampire hunters as the "yang" expelled in the breath of the living. Yes, I watched far too many of those films.)

During the day, my exasperated dad would sweep away the curtains in an impatient flourish and demand to know where the vampire could be hidden, and that the bunch of leaves was just that: a bunch of leaves. I would then keep silent and refuse to acknowledge that he might be right, because I knew those horrors were nocturnal hunters. During the day, according to the movies, they had to hide themselves in a dark place or sleep in their coffin.

To combat this insinuating fear, I developed the habit of sleeping before my parents did. I would leave my door open, so that the light from the living room would spill into the darkness of my room. The noise from the television and the murmur of conversation would act as a reassuring lullaby to soothe me into slumber.

This habit has lasted into adulthood. Of course, I no longer believe in jumping undead. Now, remembering the ex-bf scoffing at the idea of shambling corpses, let alone watching hopping corpses brings a silly little embarrassed smile to my face. And watching the Hongkong vampire movies bring on only nostalgia and giggles at the whole absurdity of the situation. But of course such courage is probably illusionary, because I have prayer beads hung over the door and a charm above my headboard.

Finally, these days, while I insist on total darkness and silence, I can if I wish, still fall asleep in spite of noise from the television and the lights turned on, a legacy from my childhood fears.