Greetings from 6:35am! I haven’t slept since yesterday; I mean that literally, not figuratively. Last night I had dinner at a place called Harlem–and then, again my better judgment, had two cups of coffee. Me and coffee aren’t as close as we once were; I’ve had to scale back my consumption in the last few months, and right now I’m down to a cup, two cups max in the morning, after which I switch over to herbal tea. Not so yesterday: two cups in the morning, a Starbucks gingerbread latte in the afternoon, and these two cups of coffee after dinner. It might’ve been Jamaican coffee; it was certainly potent enough to be Jamaican coffee. Anyway: then I drove home, accompanied by Kathleen Edwards, took my meds, and got into bed…and then I didn’t fall asleep. I tossed; I turned. I got up, found an extra pillow, came back to bed–and nothing. I read (Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises). I worked on a mix CD. I read (an anniversary retrospective on Old Trafford). Still nothing. At 5:30 I woke up–or, rather, got out of bed–and went downstairs and had breakfast, then came back to bed and did my exposure activity for the day. And now it’s 6:35 and my alarm’s set for an hour from now so I can watch Sunderland v. Tottenham Hotspur.
So today’s already a write-off…and y’know what? I’m totally okay with that. Last night was one of those nights where I didn’t really want to sleep; it felt like there was too much happening in the world, too much happening in my life, to waste any time sleeping. There were books to read and movies to watch and music to listen to and friends to write to, and sleep just seemed like an unnecessary obstacle. I’m sure I’ll feel differently in a few hours–my goal is to make it to the end of the United match, then hopefully to the end of mine and Ambassador Gordo’s lunch–but right now I’m way too excited for life to worry about a lost night.