I wake up abruptly having dreamt my hands are asleep and itchy with needles, but when I open my eyes into the darkness my hands are no more asleep than the rest of me, and we all get out of bed.
In the morning I make coffee out of habit and then decide to drink it when I feel like I really need, rather than want it, and by the afternoon there are three cups of cold coffee in a soldierly row on my desk. I want everything to be what I want and balk at need and there is no faster way to make me give something up than to tell me I can't walk away.
Lately I've been considering the degree to which my stubborn self has put its queer shoulder to the wheel in the interest of getting me somewhere I did not necessarily want to go. If someone had told me I couldn't be a scientist because I am a woman, I would be wearing a white coat right now and I would know a lot more than you do, but I'm glad nobody told me that because few things interest me less than test tubes. I did make a mess of choices because I was told I couldn't, one way or the other, and some of those choices I really, really regret now. Still, I guess I mostly did okay.
There is still a typo on the White House web site, and it's messing with my ability to be purely delighted with it. I WROTE TO THEM about it, says Crotchety McEditpants, but apparently they think they have other, more demanding things to do or something.
I can't go to sleep at night because I need to get to the end of the chapter and then I need just a little taste of the next chapter which I then need to get to the end of, and I am torn between being distressed at my lack of self-control, which feeds me more vinegar and keeps me awake until 2 a.m. and shouldn't have said that, and my spontaneous nature, which loves the quench of hunger and the next chapter and anything revealing.
Then I fall asleep with the book under my head and when I wake up the bookmark's shape is pressed into my cheek, and I make a pot of coffee.
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