The plastic bottle rattles like Jerome Green’s maracas. I shaka-shake it, and pop the lid. Out tumble two  blue pills the size of pinto beans, promising a committed night of sound sleep. The only “sounds” I’ve been sleeping to lately are happy husband’s snoring, and my own thoughts. I contemplate taking a third pill, but given the amount of pain killers in my blood at the time, I put the third one back.

It’s early evening, and I’ve spent the last few hours writing. I deserve a good night of sleep, and decide to turn in. Yawns overcome me, and my speech slows a little as I prepare to dance happy dream dances with my sleeping pills.

That is… until my head hits the pillow. The worry and anxiety settle in a little deeper, prompting me with questions such as:

Did I proofread my last post enough?

Did anyone else view my blog since I shut down the computer?

What will I write about tomorrow?

Does anyone like my “stuff”?

Then, some ridiculously good story idea pops into my head, and as I try to pry myself out from under happy husband, I knock over a glass of ice water I insist having by the bed, drenching my BlackBerry like an eleven year-old’s maxi-pad after her first period. Curse words escape under my breath, as I violently shake my phone like a maraca to get the water out. Once I get it semi-dried off and turned on, I’ve forgotten whatever million dollar book idea I had in the first place.

Now I’m definitely wide awake.

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