Last week was the typical Really Long Week — in bed around 10, up at 5, with (as of Wednesday — or was it Tuesday?) midnight vomit shenanigans with Kitten.
Friday, up at 5 again. Doyce’s Star Wars game. In bed at … oh, make it 1.
Saturday, up at 8, at my request. We’ve got a party to prep for, right? Work, work, work, clean, clean, clean, ready at the last second (or a few afterwards). Party, party, party, in bed at … oh, make it Midnight? One?
Sunday, up at 7:30 with the Kitten (who had realized her door was unlocked, toddled downstairs, and promptly locked herself in the bathroom). Church, brunch, long-long-long exhausting game that I’ve been slaving and stressing and angsting over for two weeks. On-stage and running on fumes the entire day.
In bed at … 9?
Monday, up at 5. Work hard through a typical Monday (bleah). Race home, run down to the church early to take care of Kitten while Margie finishes the cooking for Alpha, then do the Alpha thing which gets me home at 9:30, check e-mail, in bed by 10:30 …
Tuesday, up at 5 …
I’m an evening person. Really. Normally. I’d much rather stay up until 1, all night, every night.
But not getting up at 5. I’m an 8-hour-sleep person. Give me 8 hours, I’m stylin’. Give me 7, and I’m burning batteries.
Being here at home this afternoon, I should be doing one of two things:
Instead, I feel like taking a nap.
I think I’ll settle for vegging on the sofa.
Feh.