Smoke and mirrors

I'm sleepy. And when I'm sleepy, I'm cranky. And when I'm cranky, I can't sleep. Why, god? Why? Why do you fuck with me so?

I'm unfortunately at that point of the evening where if I'd listened to my poor little body and gone to bed two hours ago, I'd currently be drifting on a velvety pillow in the soft sea of warm sleep. But I didn't. I stayed up and did stooopid things on the internet (which shall remain nameless) and when I lay down to finally die a mini-death, I couldn't do it. I could not stop shifting my position and twisting my legs this way and that and flipping my pillow over and over and my eyes kept popping open. And also there were those drunk frat douches outside my window hocking lung boogers on the sidewalk in front of their Hummer. Godfuckingdamnit all to h-e-double hockey sticks.

So I decided to stop fighting it, and thought I'd blog instead. Of course.

Hi, Y'all!

A friend of mine (who shall remain nameless as well, but you know who the fuck you are) suggested to me today that I should write more heartfelt things on this blog. He even went so far as to say, "I'm tired of reading your bullshit".

Now, as luck would have it, I am fluent in the coarse dialect of his alien tongue and was able to decode his cave-drawing of a message to mean, "Kristin, I think that perhaps you're a little too glib and off-the-cuff on your blog than you are in real life, and I'd like to see more of that side of you on Fertile. Why don't you do that?"

Because Duh.

Why oh why in the name of all that is holy would I ever want to do that?

Time for bed, Y'all. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.


Love,
Kristin