I hate not sleeping. This thing just doesn’t shut off, damn perpetual tick tock racket inside my head. I’ve been sick since Saturday, and for the last three nights, I dipped not in spirit, instead relying on drowsy, sick pills that work too slow. Tonight, with half a dose remaining, they don’t work at all.
My stomach grumbles, and I’ve been munching like a stoner. No more chips. The 12 Grain Mini-Snack Crackers are all that’s left. They’re loaded with Inulin, a prebiotic fiber that supports the digestive tract. Water is stale and tastes like sick. My eyes bleed a winking daze, weary and restless from several sickness-induced day naps.
If I find Benadryl, I’ll surely be unable to get up in six hours when it’s time to take the boy to school. If I don’t, I’ll surely be awake another two. Maybe three.
Reading doesn’t help. I’m trying to turn off.
I don’t want Bourbon, or Rum, or Wine. I want sweet, peaceful, easy sleep.
And some chips and salsa. Or nachos. Greasy gas station or ballpark kind where the cheese broils in a festering rot of itself in a thick pan over a stove. And a Root Beer.
I probably should not have had that cup of coffee this afternoon.
Feels like High School all over again.
Just need to shut off by myself.
It's twelve twenty-nine.
At seven thirty-six, an audibly blurred line of goodbyes and I love you's fluttered upstairs like a butterfly floating through a violent concerto wind.
Had I dreamt that?
It had rained all night, and a medicated dizziness circled my half-open eyes. My lips were parsed, and ears plugged.
The door slammed shut. The garage door automated itself downward, grinding and vibrating and falling.
Then, it was eight fifty-two, and all was quiet, except Dennis Bartel's talk on Tittle-Tattle and Antonin Dvorak.
The drugs don't put me to sleep, but they keep me asleep--and that isn't the issue.
It's twelve forty-three, with two and a half more pages.
Taco Tuesday with tri-tip asada becomes leftover Wednesday.
I get jittery when I have caffeine after ten oh oh. So, I won't.