Punch Drunk Shove

Oh insomnia.

Last night I think I finally conked out towards the far end of four in the morning.

The broken record player in my brain was playing the jingle to the "incredible edible egg", and the record was skipping. After the six-thousandth time, when the sheets are in tangles and you surrender to free association on the egg theme, which leads variously to the Story of the O, to Brideshead (Sebastian's mummy's plover's eggs) to having a yen for scrambled eggs well past bed time.

I'm not generally an insomniac, I sleep like the dead, and have always kept my adolescent propensity to sleep past noon on the weekends.

I wondered what hit me, then I felt a twinge and I realized that I was ovulating. Incredible, edible, egg... Funny how the brain works.

On three hours sleep I am wont to make inappropriate jokes, to wit, in response to an email about eating dates in Marrakecsh, I told my friend that he had best beware of being flogged by Adnan the Hirsute, the most deadly flatulent troll in all of Morocco. I cracked myself til my boss looked at me askance, and giggled like a madwoman for the remainder of the day. I'm giggling now - imagining Adnan the Hirsute passing a greenish sort of wind and raining friendly blows. I never got a response to my email. I really can't imagine why.