On Being Sleepy

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I've entered automatica land, where every sound around me is a metronome willing me to sleep. The flesh under my eyes has stiffened into a crusty pink meringue mass, and as I was walking back into the office I think I forgot for a moment I was walking.

I went on my lunch break to find a Johnny Cash CD and failed. There is a little device in my chest which monitors my intake of heartbreak, and when it reaches a certain level it send a signal to Network TV to show Walk The Line. Swear. It happened last night, just like it happened last Spring, only a week and a year apart. Not having a computer at home to upload photos or make CDs or look forward to writing drunken rants while singing Folsom Prison about three keys too high, it's hard. It's very very frustrating. But not as frustrating as finding six Kenny Chesney CDs to one Willie Nelson. I wonder if I could define that as an exact proportion.

What Would M. Ward Do? WWMWD? Will be my new bracelet to wear on my fat little baby wrist.

I tried to sugar myself up (because solid food seems like something I don't remember eating, this is how your body tricks you into dying when you are this tired) with a twisted pisted coffee toffee arsenic laced Frosty Wosty, but the sun was cruel and melted it before I returned to the air conditioning. Now my hands are sticky like a baby's (a poor baby) and I dripped some down my cleavage which I tried to discreetly wipe up and failed miserably.

Cleavage. More trouble than its worth. It's a dirty disgusting crumb/sweat/pollen trap.

My only life goal at this point is to find some damn Cash to listen to, to paint a watercolor of a giant robot guarding the Great Lakes, and also to watch a Russian film. Preferably Nightwatch. I will most likely end up crying intermittently into a 7.99 bottle of Shiraz while watching whatever 1965 Sean Connery film TCM shows tonight, and looking balefully at the phone everytime I go to the bathroom. Because the phone will be on the charger by the bathroom door, which is where I leave it when I don't want to hear it while I'm upstairs, but where I can easily obsessively check to see who's called.

No one will call. And don't read this thinking you should. I like to see who's called, but I don't like to answer the phone. Probably there will be calls and I won't answer them. If you text me tonight, I will hold it against you for a very long time. Texts and me, we're quits.

If I was a smart clean responsible girl, I would do my dishes. But god do I want to go to sleep. In a hotel room in Arizona. If you are my new best friend, take me there now, please. A clean, somewhat musty from cigarettes, freezing cold hotel room with thin generic blankets, a glass of ice water in a plastic cup, and a vaccuum of furnace blasting cancer melting heat when I open the window. A sick room.