Jennie Smash

Apparently, the cure for insomnia is to have your sister come to visit and tell you that you’re going to fall asleep. This was our conversation last night:

Mrs. Piddlington, observing me sacked out on the bed: “You’re going to fall asleep in about 2.5 seconds.”

Me: “No, I’m not.”

Mrs. Piddlington: “Yes, you are.”

Me: “Zzzzzz.”

So, she used the Force on me, is my point. “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for, and you’re getting sleepy.” Either that, or the eight nights in a row of social activity finally caught up with me. You know, one or the other.

The insomnia thing has been with me for four years now, ever since I lost about thirty pounds and (apparently) screwed up my thyroid, or my hypothalamus, or whatever it is that regulates sleep. I’m betting Jayman will know and post about it shortly. Truly, I don’t need to use Google anymore. I can just rely on my commenters. Isn’t that nice?

But here’s my point: I slept for eight hours last night, and it was bliss.