Sleepless in Sentience

Maybe it was the few dozen chocolate covered espresso beans right before bed or my disappointed liver sniveling that the night's recreation had fallen short of expected contributions to the daily-dialysis-in-twenty goal. Maybe it was Physiology's answer to my stubborn conviction. A biological "As if" valley girl snort at perceived imperviousness. Or, maybe it was biology trying to teach me a lesson. Whatever it was, its muffled message continues to resonate. It's like someone hit a gong and used a magic mallet that's resulted in ceaseless sound ripple monopoly. Only difference is that instead of the rich, textured tone of a gong (or tam-tam, as the orchestral folk are quick to point out), this audio un-delight sounds an awful lot like the metal edge of a snow plow scraping mercilessly against a concrete/snow/ice combo. Particularly the metal on concrete part. All night.

So maybe this isn't some karmic delusion. Maybe the Hand of Fatima isn't giving me an ass slap and sending me on my merry way. This may even have something to do with living in white-as-death-winter Maine and the elements. God, how those elements taunt me. And not in that hot, kinky sort of way either. It's more like Sartre's No Exit. A gorgeous vixen floating atop a narcissistic martini without a mirror in sight. Straight up.