I'm Dreaming of a Whiiiite Pillow...

How tired do you have to be if you’re dreaming about taking a nap? I had a dream that I was sleeping—that hardcore sleep where you’re aware that people are trying to wake you, but you’re so drugged with fatigue you can’t speak or move—and I was dreaming in my dream that I was going to be late for work. Also, when Dream Me finally woke up, she didn’t have any clean clothes except pajamas.*

I actually went home early yesterday because I didn’t feel well—not sick, but not… right. I felt fine, inasmuch as operating on autopilot, barely cognizant of one’s own actions falls under that definition; I wasn’t in any kind of pain. I think maybe it’s exhaustion, but that sounds like something Victorian ladies would succumb to (like ‘the vapors’ or ‘ennui’) which will garner sympathy for the ovaried but isn’t medically threatening (and which, for the most part, are just by-products of being locked in an bracelet-waisted corset for eighteen hours a day). Thank God “exhaustion” is also a popular celebrity synonym for “found wandering around coked to the frosted tips with no knowledge of self, vehicle whereabouts, or life on this planet on general;” instead of feeling anachronistically delicate whenever my head hits the keyboard, I can rather feel a little punk rock.

Yup. Saturday is going to be spent sleeping. Right after the running. And the present-wrapping. And the groceries and the zzzzzzz…

*What was that, body? “Yopp?” What’s that supposed to mean?


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