There’s a word, “sleepdrunk”—goofy, groggy, unfocussed. I reckon its proper meaning applies to a man who’s just woken up and is having trouble shaking off sleep. But I keep wanting to use it for the scattered fogginess that comes to the sleep-deprived. Not sleepdrunk but sleepdry. Or sleep-hungover, and craving the hair of the snake that bit me.
I’m hunkered down with hot tea and dry toast, trying to warm my hands and they just won’t come warm. I’ve got a couple of projects pending and a third I’m trying to nail shut, that I have to nail shut before I move on—but I’m in the worst possible space for a man on a deadline, with a wandering will that will not be corralled. I’ve tried threats; I’ve tried bribery; I’ve tried punitive measures. But still my head is flying in a thousand different directions at once, pieces splintering in flight.
I’m sweeping up as fast as I can, hoping I drop from exhaustion soon so I can catch up with myself. Because I need to have a strong word with me.
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