Still Not Whoreticulture Friday.

Still at Erma Bombeck.  Last night I finish the blog and I think, "I am so tired.  I'm going to bed." (The real Friday post is below.  This is just incoherent, sleep-deprived rambling.  It's like a have a newborn again.)



I go to bed.  There is no Current Husband.  There are no Current Children.  There is no George the Superpet hogging the bottom of the bed with his 100+ pound Poodleness.  I can't sleep.  I start thinking about that things that can go wrong in hotel rooms.  I think about that Cary Stanger (??) guy in California that took the three women hostage in their room and raped and killed them.  That didn't put me to sleep.  Nor did thoughts of the other 20 or so serial killers with whom I am familiar.  Normally this serial killer routine puts me right into dreamland, but not last night. 

Now I'm awake at what would normally be a full hour before "Teenage Waking Time" at my home, and I have to get on a shuttle bus in 20 minutes, and there is no coffee in my room.  How can I be expected to stalk an author appropriately with no sleep OR caffeine?

Meth don't fail me now.