Night of the Living Dread

Thoughts carom around my brain, like Pong on hyper-drive, bouncing too quickly for me to comprehend them, much less catch and quiet them. I smooth an imagined wrinkle out of my pillow case, move my hair out of my face and adjust the blankets again. Husband lightly snores. Not helping. I jostle the bed. He turns over, breathing more quietly. But then something else annoys me, blocking my quest for slumber. It doesn't matter what the perceived annoyance is, there is no hope. I can't find sleep.

I give up and stumble downstairs, zombie-like. Zac mews softly, welcoming me with hopeful expectation. "Sorry, kitty, it's not breakfast time yet. You've hours to go."

I settle in front of the TV, a cup of Sleepy Time tea in hand. Maybe, just maybe, the combination of somnolent herbs and mindless TV will numb my brain and still my thoughts.

Ugh, it's infomercial after infomercial. I don't like them to begin with but the last thing I need or want was to be greeted with whatever must-have delusion they were pitching. I turn off the TV and sit in the dark, finishing my tea, wondering, "Where the hell are you, Mr. Sandman?"

Sleep finally conquers wakefulness about 3am.

Damn, I hate insomnia.