Something tells me in the back of my eternally crammed, mildly insane mind. That I need to write, not w-r-i-t-e. As in writing slow ponderous thoughts-Which coincidentally is -exactly- what I am doing w-right now.
Today, I woke up, exhausted. As if all the energy I had sworn I had when I went to bed seeped right out of my body and immersed itself in my temporary bed with one of those memory foam pads, to make it softer, and soaked right in.
I sit here, in my grey-lit room, on this chair that I swear was made out of timber from hell. Typing mindless thoughts, and all the while the only thought sticking out, that I can think of is seeing a giant, crane swinging these two porta-potties roped together through the air.
Because after being roused from bed, forced into a sweatshirt-For hells sake, it was 89 the other day, and look, I can see that damned 50 degree weatherbug icon waving itself provacatively at me.
The medical term for that, is sleep deprievation. I believe.
But I did really see a crane moving two mobile toilets through the grey misty air. That I swear to god I thought I left behind in washington.
Although, I admit, there is something to be said for curling up in a blanket when you don't feel good, and are in a serious need of sleep. I have donned the black sweatshirt of choice, one I subtly stole from my friend back home. He -did- lend it to me, and it was too small for him.
But it does have his last name, and his wonderful team-number on the back. It provides more comfort than a blanket could, and for that.
I am eternally grateful.
I also sit here pondering if anyone has reviewed the autobiography "Running with Scissors" here in this cozy, familiar webspace. Since I read it last week, and now I have Terry Pratchet fresh in my brain. Perhaps -thats- why I am so amused by flying porta-potties at the moment.