Eighty-five. Sleep is for the week. No, the weak.
It's funny how you get used to sleeping certain ways, even when you live a lifestyle where you can't count on it being consistent from day to day or week to week. You let yourself get used to the other person beside you, or being curled a certain way, to waking up in the same position or with the covers tangled just so around you.
Once the insomnia went, I started paying attention to the sleep thing -- or maybe it was the other way around. Once I started thinking about it, I'd been ignoring my usual sleep patterns and trying to force myself into new ones to match my new life. It doesn't matter if you're sleeping the Sleep of the Future, however; your subconscious rhythms don't really care, and if you're not giving your body what it's already decided it likes best, then fuck you, Charlie. Stare at that ceiling some more.
In other news, my ex is whining about my publicist informing the world of our split before he got the chance. Now there's a guilty pleasure I don't have to cop to, watching him squirm as his family found out we split because he didn't tell them quickly enough and my people are on the ball. He needs someone to blame, and he's found it can't be me, so the publicity people are just an easy rest stop before looking more deeply at behavior and the real problems.
My little house in LA is all sold now, everything packed up just as fast as he wanted it. I gave him everything he wanted, and I slept peacefully last night, with neat dreams about being a girl as tough as Kansas in "Sugar and Spice", even tougher. It was good.
Miss you. You know who you are.
Once the insomnia went, I started paying attention to the sleep thing -- or maybe it was the other way around. Once I started thinking about it, I'd been ignoring my usual sleep patterns and trying to force myself into new ones to match my new life. It doesn't matter if you're sleeping the Sleep of the Future, however; your subconscious rhythms don't really care, and if you're not giving your body what it's already decided it likes best, then fuck you, Charlie. Stare at that ceiling some more.
In other news, my ex is whining about my publicist informing the world of our split before he got the chance. Now there's a guilty pleasure I don't have to cop to, watching him squirm as his family found out we split because he didn't tell them quickly enough and my people are on the ball. He needs someone to blame, and he's found it can't be me, so the publicity people are just an easy rest stop before looking more deeply at behavior and the real problems.
My little house in LA is all sold now, everything packed up just as fast as he wanted it. I gave him everything he wanted, and I slept peacefully last night, with neat dreams about being a girl as tough as Kansas in "Sugar and Spice", even tougher. It was good.
Miss you. You know who you are.