Drugged and discombobulated

Sleep can be a dangerously powerful substance. I was drenched in it for an excessive twelve hours last night, with a belly full of booze and ice cream. Prior to bedtime my stomach had asked politely for something nutritious, but I had no energy left for food preparation. I drifted off at a relatively early hour, falling into a heavy slumber full of wacky dreams that refused to let go until well after my body had had enough. I hate those prolonged mornings when my faculties remain under the control of sleep as I struggle to become conscious. This morning, I’d probably had a good nine hours’ sleep by the time my brain started to wake up, but my body refused to recognize that. Although I was mostly stuck in crazy dream-land, I could tell that in reality I was lying in bed, it was light outside, and I was profoundly hungry. My weakly wakeful mind began to spin madly with thoughts of getting up, making breakfast, doing chores—yet I couldn’t even open my eyes. The drowsiness felt literally like a weight on top of my body; I was helplessly submissive to it.

Bits of real life started to infiltrate my dreams. Among the odd images, like a yard full of baby bunnies (my dreams aren’t always so cute), appeared visions of me making scrambled eggs and taking laundry to the basement: both of which I planned to do this morning. Slowly, the cognizant part of my brain won out over the sleep-addled majority, in a battle that had me half-waking up and going back to sleep at least five times before I finally opened my eyes at 10:30. I was woozy, discombobulated, and annoyed that my day had started so late. Even after filling my empty stomach, I felt off-balance for hours.

I love sleep, but please, let me have the pure stuff—no more narcotics.

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