Note to self, which will probably be lost and forgotten when I need it again.
I don’t need drugs. I don’t need to get drunk. I don’t need a day off, per se. I need sleep.
Lots of sleep. Naps, then forty winks, then a night of the deep & restful, then naps in the morning after lolling for a while, a siesta, then a nap, and then another night of sleep, lovely sleep.
I am perky. I am pert. I am jovial and creative and clever and wise and tolerant and pleasant and lemon-scented. Because I had sleep.
Next time I’m grouching, I am going to try to check to see when I last slept eight hours in a row.
Get some rest. I’ll be by in about seven months.
I shall, if only to be bright and perky when you arrive.
You know, a day off can lead pretty directly to being caught up on sleep. This is a fine and noble thing to do once in a rare while.
It can, and it did. Mostly I fill my days off to bursting rather than rest, but this weekend I did damned little, and liked it, and did more. I used to be able to go years without sleep, but those days are past.
Maybe I need to recharge my blue shirt with the big red S.
Sleep good. Sleep deprivation may be interesting, but it’s not good for functionality.
Exactly. The first thing that goes is perspective, then enthusiasm, then creativity. At which point I can’t for the life of me write a damned thing, can’t bring myself to try, and can’t figure out what’s wrong.
This appears to be one of the things I repeat. I’m told that my troughs are becoming less, but I’d really just rather be done with them entirely.
*sticks this revelation up on the tackboard next to the other important epiphanies*
Sleep is important.
Should that be Rest Is Important?