Eh

Ugh, this insomnia is such torture. I was only getting to sleep past four in the morning, and of course Little Girl us up at eight. So of course, not resting, I haven’t been getting better, so am still sick, for crying out loud. It pisses me off to be missing one of the last weeks of weather warm enough for swimming. Last night I drugged myself up so at least I was able to get to sleep at a reasonable time. It’s just been miserable. Being exhausted and yet not being able to sleep is just inhumane, and it was my own mind doing it to myself.

And what have I been up thinking about? There’s been all the anxiety and obsessive planning related in various ways to the move. Duh. There’s general daydreaming, pretend conversations, things I should have said, things I shouldn’t have, to go over, to rehash, to process. And I had been reading some amazing, complex novels that totally had me preoccupied: if I wasn’t reading them, I was wishing I were, and wondering what I was missing. (Check out Tana French and Stieg Larsson if you, too, wish to cease sleeping.) Now I’m off books and on drugs, and I hope one day not to be ill anymore. It’s a humble dream.

I don’t know, maybe you can tell, but I already took my NyQuil and I bet if I talked to you I’d be slurring. Buenas noches.