05 July 2006

Sleep is a fickle mistress.

I'm on week ... two? three, maybe? of sleeping for shit. I can't remember because I'm sleep-deprived, you see. It all started with a phone call at 12:50 a.m. on a Thursday night, maybe? I think it was two weeks ago. Still no idea who it was that called. But that phone call set this all in motion. Add some stress, a dash of depression, an out-of-town guest, crazy girl hormones, weed whackers at 7:00 a.m. on a holiday, fireworks until 3:00 a.m. ... and here I am today.

I've never been a good sleeper. The story is that when my parents brought me home from the hospital as a wee baby, I slept a grand total of eight hours over the course of the first three days. Apparently, I did nothing but scream for the first 24 hours. I'm sure that's just slightly exaggerated, but it does show that even as a baby I didn't require much sleep. Nor was I able to sleep that much. I've never been the kind of person who will sleep a weekend away. If I'm completely exhausted, I might sleep eight to 10 hours on a weekend. Once a year I might sleep 12 or 13 hours.

Even though I've never needed much sleep, two weeks of sleeping three to five hours a night takes a toll on a girl. Eventually, I'll reach the point where I crash and go back to sleeping (somewhat) normally. I'm really hoping that comes soon. Perhaps I need a catalyst, much like the phone call that started all of this. What that catalyst could or would be though, is beyond me.

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