I stumbled out of bed this morning, literally, and, half asleep, visited the bathroom. A black ‘thing’ sat on the floor, and I whipped my foot back, holding in the scream of alarm because the kids were still asleep. Only to find the black thing was my sock-encased foot. Feeling rather silly, I did the morning bathroom efforts and staggered downstairs. Staggered sounds over the top, but stagger I did. I popped—and just then, still half asleep, I wrote pooped—a teabag and sweeteners in my cup and went outside for my morning cigarette. Finished, I came back in, drank 2 glasses of water, then poured kettle water into my tea cup.
“Oh, crap! I haven’t boiled the kettle.” Mumble-mumble-sniff.
Today has started out badly, as though I’m in a world alien to my own, where furniture isn’t where it’s supposed to be and things are off-kilter. I’m typing this and wondering when, exactly, I’m going to wake up. I’ve been busy lately, so being tired isn’t any surprise, but this tired?
Oh, dear God, please send me an infusion of wakefulness that changes me from this needing-matchsticks-for-my-eyes freak into Wonder Woman.
I can only assume I’ll either fully wake at some point or continue my day much like it began, the latter being a nightmare of cock-ups. I wouldn’t mind if the cock-ups made their way into my manuscript, because that would mean I’ll have completed a sex scene I have waiting in my latest book, but somehow I know it isn’t going to happen.
Hmm. This day holds unseen treasures, waiting to be tripped over, curses rolling off my tongue. Now, there’s one more prayer I must utter before I slap myself silly and wander around telling myself to get a grip.
Please, if I get edits returned today, give me the strength to complete them without making a complete and utter prat of myself. Thank you.