Her Bad Mother

Sunday, March 1, 2009

And On The Seven-Hundred And Second Day, She Took It All Back

What I wrote the other day? About sleep? Please disregard.

The gods, they were listening, and they did not approve. That, or you all weren't making the necessary sacrifices on my behalf. Which I understand, sort of, because good sheets (the sleep gods' preferred object of sacrifice) are a thing to treasure, but still. We're talking about sleep here, the loss of which is all the more painful after you've luxuriated in its sweet embrace for a couple of days (and after you've tossed your supply of Ativan, in premature celebration of your reunion with Morpheus and Hypnos who, it turns out, were just in it for a two-night stand, the bastards.)

I am now going into mourning, and, also, am rummaging through the trash to find that bottle of Ativan.

As you were.

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