Last night I went to bed at 9:30pm.
The Red Sox were up 5-3 thanks in part to a two-run homer from David Ortiz.
I could see Xtra innings written all over the scoreboard so I decided to go to bed.
No sense in staying up until God knows when, right? I had to get up at 4:45 anyway…
Silly me.
The Sox won (yay) but I woke up at 2:45am.
No idea why.
I padded downstairs for a glass of water (big mistake) and went back upstairs to lay down. By then, my mind was already up and at work.
Oh, the stories, the bills, vacation (that starts this Sunday), the gigs, the blog, my father and a potpourri of things went careening around the supposedly still dormant faction of my brain.
At 3:45 I groaned, “Ah, WTF?” and got out of bed to go make coffee.
Sherlock, my male cat, looked at me and started doing a happy dance because he knew he would be eating early.

I sat at the computer with my huge mug of coffee and mindlessly surfed.
Three or four cups of coffee later I took a shower and headed into the city to catch the 6am train to Boston.

It’s now 6:05pm as I write this and I think I’m seeing little green men in neon pink tutus outside the train that look strangely like Dennis Rodman. Hey, that is Dennis Rodman. Isn’t it?
I feel like poop right now—and not the good kind.
This post is my mind firing on absolutely NO CYLINDERS whatsoever…
Zzzzzzzzzz………. I’m off.



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