Last night, I had the worst night's sleep known to man. Tipsy on half a bottle of celebratory champagne (after dinner at a nice restaurant that wasn't quite where we planned on going but seemed to be in the same place and had duck, so what did I care?) I fell into bed and couldn't keep my eyes open.

At 2am, I couldn't keep them closed. My brain was rolling around nothing in particular; I've inherited my father's trait of worrying at things when I should be sleeping, but last night there was nothing bothering me. I just couldn't sleep. I had never been so not-tired in my whole life.

At about half past, maybe three, the Male got sick and tired of me and bailed out. I turned on the light and read another section of The Scar, hoping I'd get drowsy. At five, I gave up on that and tried again with the sleeping. I was moderately more successful. Infected by Mr Mieville's weird storytelling, I had odd half-waking dreams, about fake sleep being a substitute for real sleep, and such.

I'm such a happy camper today. Oh yes.

Plus, last night I flushed my bone ring down the toilet. And don't ask me why I fucking did that, it was a fucking accident, all right?

Double-plus, I just burnt the coffee.

Fuck it all.

I'm still going to drink it, though.