I don't think my eyelids work anymore.
I'm utterly exhausted but wide awake and there's just me and that damn ticking clock for company. Even Basil the cat has gone to bed. In four and a half hours time I leave for work. Between us, work is going to be difficult. Commuting is going to be difficult. Saying my name is going to be difficult.
As the sleeping pills didn't work, my lovely GP said to try upping my pain meds to see if they would knock me out but they've had the opposite effect. I have fish bowls for eyes and that strange demented look you see on the face of a crazed axe murderer. It ain't pretty.
I'm turning into Jekyll and Hyde. By day I try to be a mild mannered professional with ladylike hobbies and a pleasant demeanor; by night I'm gibbering, nonsensical, itinerant mess with Tourette's tendencies. The metamorphosis as yet is insidious and creeps over me, unknowingly. You remember I told you that they've referred me to a psychologist? Wouldn't you like to be a fly on the wall. I would.
I'd be happy if I felt this awake at midday. Late tomorrow morning, first the sinking feeling then the mental fog will descend, just before the weekly meeting with accounts. The really weird thing is I can remember foreign transactions from months ago but ask me to tie my shoes or walk in a straight line, or what I had for breakfast and I'm stuffed. I'm sure they think I'm on the juice.
Now there's an idea.
