4:30am. Still. Can’t. Sleep.
Skewered on the sharp an’ shiny tines of my restless mind. Why do I always think of the worst scenarios in the wee sleepless hours? The birds are starting to tweet their wake up calls, the sky is just beginning to brighten into the stirrings of a new day and I haven’t even seen wink #1.
Grack. I wish I was an onion. Then I could just peel aside layer after pungent, exciting layer, getting svelter and smaller and cuter until that last magical one-the teensy, smooth curvacious droplet of pure white onionyness that gives way to finally reveal, ta da! Nothing.
Sigh. I didn’t even do anything to deserve this, no lazing about all day, no latenight dark chocolate fest, nary an iced latte in sight. I did get a little feisty with my silver bullet right about bedtime, but that’s usually a good prelude to sleep! Whine. On the contrary, it was a most industrious and enjoyable wednesday. I got up early(ish), made breakfast, watered the garden, pruned the ‘maters, did laundry, took my kid to his dad’s, went for a walk, gave five massages at work and hied off to a fabulous Golden Gardens beachbirthdaysnugglejambonfireparty- -Happy birthday Sebastian! When the cops finally, definatively kicked us out, I merrily, even sleepily, cruised on homewards, little suspecting that such a perfectly turned out summer’s day would end in maniacal insomniacality.
Strange hormones frolicking in the summer breezes tonight~waves of luscious, lusty rapture deluge me, causing bizarre meditations on the omnipotent state of utterly divine chocolate brownieness and rambles through ankle-claspingly hot, somewhat forbidden fantasies(my vibrator made me do it, I swear!) alternating with slightly tangled skeins of pearlescent, silken longing snagged on snarky, fidgetting prickles of impossibility and craggy boulders of monumentally frustrating stupidity.
Heeeeeeeeelp, there’s too much happening in my brain! Someone please throw a cool washcloth on the fireworks and whip up a receptionist or two or at least a gofer with secret managerial aspirations, cuz if we could get this show shipshape I’m sure we could paint five paintings, write twenty poems an’ a graphic novel, sculpt a few major deities and solve most of the world’s woes(or at least my own) before the crow cocks morning.
OK, I’m going back to bed. Wish me asleep, please.