S*#t. Oh, well.
Last night's sleep was better than usual. Still with the freaky dreams, though. Someone died, and most of the dream time consisted of me being horrified because I had just seen her in a donut shop last week. That's the usual motif of my dreams these days – a lingering feeling of shock, horror, sadness or being grossed out. There are times, like a few months ago, when I have dreamisodes where I am running around the whole time, on some mission or another. I wake up with aching legs and stress. I don't prefer those, but these recent dreams are almost worse, because I wake myself up in the middle of the night in order to stop having the exhausting emotion that I'm feeling in my dream.
Taking melatonin makes it so much harder to wake up in the morning. Cloudy head. The wine is better at putting me to sleep and then letting me wake up. The melatonin is probably more in tune with my brain waves though, and my brain waves are all, 'Please, let me just frickin get the 8 hours of sleep, dammit.' But nope.
Really though, how should I be feeling about the fact that I depend on wine to get me to sleep and coffee to wake me up in the morning?
Rusty is so fluffy. In the mornings, when he hears that I am up, he comes finds me and sits on my foot because it's been a long night for him, too, and he too needs to be petted and hugged. It helps him get through a lonely day.
I eat some leftover chicken and broccoli for breakfast while reading Romans 2.
Does this outfit make me look like Beetle Juice, Rusty? Heels or flats? Wear the heels, bring the flats.
We trot outside and Rusty's eyes look even more hopeful in the morning sunlight. Do I still have Matt Redman's, Facedown, album somewhere? I want to listen to that today. I play the first song of the soundtrack in my head.
Shoot, am I late? Back inside the apartment, I pack soup, corn, cheese, pear, sunflower seeds, chocolate-covered almonds, yogurt. Stretch my back. I want to spend the morning exercising. A good sweat would make me feel good.
I get to the office and it's not so bad. I have cinnamon sprinkled in my coffee and I start listening to podcast that immediately makes me laugh, but silently. I eat a piece of honeydew, it must be a pretty good piece of honeydew because it triggers a pleasant memory and I feel a little bit more like myself. The version of myself that I like.
Two more work days, and the weekend. I should sleep in on Saturday. Did I leave the iron on? I wish I could ring up Rusty to ask him. F, I'm gonna have to go home during a break to check on that. Speaking of Saturday, note to self, organize books and notes.
I am wearing a giant black ring but it is too heavy for my hands today. I keep it off, on the desk. I stroke the fake feather on my necklace while reading through the emails and try to not get my panties in a bunch about people who cannot write a real sentence. That's going to be the goal, to keep my panties unbunched and to keep the voiceover in my head to narrate in a calm, peaceful rhythmic way, to get me through this day.