I woke up this morning feeling only a fraction of myself. Scrapped and read until 2am last night. For some reason (and it’s not coffee – I drink only a cup a day these days – used to be three or more – mostly more), insomnia has kept me up this last week. I woke up with a headache that lasted two days in a row, and I finally took two Tylenol PMs at the end of which just about dropped me for 12 hours straight. Was so tempted to take more the next day to help me sleep. Instead, I scrapped.

Don’t worry, I hate taking pills more than fitful sleep.

The girls stayed in their beds as agreed last night, and I’m so proud that they remembered. It’s really quite a miracle. And yet, I felt so alone waking up all by myself in our great big bed.

I miss Lokes. Painfully. Three more days. I don’t even remember how he smells like.

I can’t decide what to read. I’ve started Diane Setterfield’s The Thirteenth Tale for my book club, but can’t stop reading Miranda July’s No One Belongs Here More Than You (short stories collection – very good, she’s so funny). I was about ten pages into Marisha Pessl’s Special Topics in Calamity Physics because it was new on paperback and I was raring to get started on it, but then I went to Costco and got Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, and started that as well. The story is surreal (McCarthy’s succinct style takes a while to get used to, and can I ask, is no-punctuation dialogue a new trend? I first encountered it in Ken Haruf’s Plainsong. It’s decadent).

And then I went and got myself trapped at Half Price at their Clearance bins outside.

Look what I got for $10:


(minus Water for Elephants – I got that at Costco for $9)

And I have Born into Brothels waiting for me on my Netflix. I am afraid to watch it.