Super.
"I balk at sleep as if it were a hole filled up with horrors, leading God knows where. . . ."
-- Baudelaire
Know what's really cool? Staying awake for however long 36 hours plus 8 hours is, after taking two Benadryl and half a lorazepam. Not only was I seeing things, I think the things saw me, too.
I've slept since then. The things are all gone. (They looked like wee, star-headed cats. Or very surprising trees. They might have been gloves. Cats with glove heads. My brain is like a fortune cookie -- folded, crumbly, stale, and completely random. Also, your lucky numbers are four, twelve, and thirty-six.)
Know what's also cool? My husband. I married such a dick. Last night at the convenience store across from the college were a pair of semi-drunk sorority chicks entreating men to go in and buy them beer (I should add that I find this practice both pathetic and reprehensible).
They foolishly approached my darling beloved and wheedled at him like a couple of hungry alley cats. "Will you buy us some beeeer?"
To which Sargon the Terrible responded "Will you bloooow me?"
You could probably have heard their screams of outrage in Zodanga. I almost died laughing. (It was not okay, what he said, I know that. We are terrible people.)
He has also bought me birthday presents. Ahead of time. And wrapped them. This is a first -- for real, we're both, like, terrible at the ahead-of-time thing, and his last birthday present from me was wrapped in newspaper. They've been on the table a week, and all I can do is look at them and chew my mental stitches over what the hell he is so proud of finding. I find out on Friday, I suppose.
Overall, I'm indifferent to the birthday thing. It's not impressive, particularly, turning 29. This year is . . . painful . . . for a number of reasons, none of which can really be alleviated by having a fuss made, so we aren't fussing. I am, however, planning to become more depraved in the following year. I'm stalking that sexual peak I keep hearing about, flexing my muscles as it were. I want to be ready when it hits. Unless it's mythical, in which case I plan to make it happen by brute force. I refuse to be cheated of my demented middle age.
It would probably be best to keep all boys between 18 and 25 away from me for, oh, the next decade or so. Except Steven Strait. Him you can throw at me. I can take it.
I had an update of pith and moment to throw you, but I'm afraid you don't get it, as what I meant to say has quite fled my mind along with most everything else. I'm having a crappy time of it, mostly because of insomnia, and most of my friends have it worse. I'm not in a state to offer much comfort, even, which upsets and frustrates me. All I can do is rest. Rest and recover.
On the bright side, I've mostly solved my problems with the latest commission, it looks great, and I feel confident that it will still look great when I'm done with it. I had to quit painting because my hands were shaking so badly I couldn't hold to a straight line. So it's back to the computer, which doesn't care if your hands aren't steady. I have new iconage. Several, actually, of which this is my favorite; I'm slowly revamping the lot. After two years, I pretty much hate the look of my old ones.
Right now the birds are singing outside, it's an obscene hour, and I feel vaguely sick. I'm going to attempt to sleep, and hope my sanity is still there when I get up in the morning.
-- Baudelaire
Know what's really cool? Staying awake for however long 36 hours plus 8 hours is, after taking two Benadryl and half a lorazepam. Not only was I seeing things, I think the things saw me, too.
I've slept since then. The things are all gone. (They looked like wee, star-headed cats. Or very surprising trees. They might have been gloves. Cats with glove heads. My brain is like a fortune cookie -- folded, crumbly, stale, and completely random. Also, your lucky numbers are four, twelve, and thirty-six.)
Know what's also cool? My husband. I married such a dick. Last night at the convenience store across from the college were a pair of semi-drunk sorority chicks entreating men to go in and buy them beer (I should add that I find this practice both pathetic and reprehensible).
They foolishly approached my darling beloved and wheedled at him like a couple of hungry alley cats. "Will you buy us some beeeer?"
To which Sargon the Terrible responded "Will you bloooow me?"
You could probably have heard their screams of outrage in Zodanga. I almost died laughing. (It was not okay, what he said, I know that. We are terrible people.)
He has also bought me birthday presents. Ahead of time. And wrapped them. This is a first -- for real, we're both, like, terrible at the ahead-of-time thing, and his last birthday present from me was wrapped in newspaper. They've been on the table a week, and all I can do is look at them and chew my mental stitches over what the hell he is so proud of finding. I find out on Friday, I suppose.
Overall, I'm indifferent to the birthday thing. It's not impressive, particularly, turning 29. This year is . . . painful . . . for a number of reasons, none of which can really be alleviated by having a fuss made, so we aren't fussing. I am, however, planning to become more depraved in the following year. I'm stalking that sexual peak I keep hearing about, flexing my muscles as it were. I want to be ready when it hits. Unless it's mythical, in which case I plan to make it happen by brute force. I refuse to be cheated of my demented middle age.
It would probably be best to keep all boys between 18 and 25 away from me for, oh, the next decade or so. Except Steven Strait. Him you can throw at me. I can take it.
I had an update of pith and moment to throw you, but I'm afraid you don't get it, as what I meant to say has quite fled my mind along with most everything else. I'm having a crappy time of it, mostly because of insomnia, and most of my friends have it worse. I'm not in a state to offer much comfort, even, which upsets and frustrates me. All I can do is rest. Rest and recover.
On the bright side, I've mostly solved my problems with the latest commission, it looks great, and I feel confident that it will still look great when I'm done with it. I had to quit painting because my hands were shaking so badly I couldn't hold to a straight line. So it's back to the computer, which doesn't care if your hands aren't steady. I have new iconage. Several, actually, of which this is my favorite; I'm slowly revamping the lot. After two years, I pretty much hate the look of my old ones.
Right now the birds are singing outside, it's an obscene hour, and I feel vaguely sick. I'm going to attempt to sleep, and hope my sanity is still there when I get up in the morning.