It seems a nightly ritual for me. I pause at the opaque brown bottle briefly and shake my head, feeling the exhaustion welling inside, certain I won�t worry or fret once my head hits my soft pillows, and then I awake, an hour or two later, mind already three thoughts deep.

It�s really equivalent to waking up to a screeching fire alarm, coughing with the thick acrid smoke filling the air, suffocating and inciting panic. Overwhelmed by the senses and the �flight or fight� mechanisms firing staccato around the brain.

Seriously, how can one expect to sleep after that, in that same bed?

And then the debate that arises; do I cave and go for the swoon or do I remain defiant and will my mind into submission. Either way, I�m going to be tired again. The swoon is easy enough to combat, more chemicals, Starbucks, even the abortions they�ve been serving me lately (Seriously, what the fuck? What happened to Starbucks consistency? I�ve drunk more lattes in the last few weeks then in my entire life. And no, I�ve never ordered a latte). If I am unsuccessful in my attempts to will myself to sleep, which is all too often, nothing will salvage me tomorrow.

Span that for a few days and I start hallucinating. My memory comes in short spurts. Hell, I saw that tonight. I literally forgot Richard�s last name. I had no idea. I was completely dumbfounded.

Eh, my social skills sucked tonight. I was in the company of some sickly connected people and I sat there, brooding. I have a chance to redeem myself next week.

I�ve made my choice for the evening. I hate it but it�s necessary right now. I need to find my way through this mess in front of me.

As Nietzsche would ask, 'Can an ass be tragic?'

-G