Hyperglycemia

As Jesse McCartney serenades me via iTunes, inquiring of my sleeping habits, I am moved to think of all those burning questions left unanswered. They run through my mind like a hamster on a wheel. I won't bore you, as the only conclusion I have to my scattered thoughts is that no conclusion is necessary.

Thanks to a boy 400 miles away, a father at 267 Old Saybrook, a boss at St. Mark's Hospital, and a God one prayer away... I can share these thoughts, and seek wisdom that instills light into my flickering bulb of a brain.

I love to think about what's out there. Space; earth; BC, AD; the eternities.

Hell, next weekend! tomorrow! tonight!

And so I shall sleep in my fifteen dollar queen size bed, wrapped in gray sheets, my tummy getting some face time with the mattress and my arms tucked inside ready in defense should the cheap and surely insecure mattress offer any "shouldn't have eaten that last mint brownie" commentary.

No sugar plum fairies nor mint brownies will be dancing in my dreams (wish I could say the same for the pouch sitting at the end of my esophagus); nothing except for a black screen of nothingness will blind the spontaneous electric synapses from reaching my conscious mind. Nothingness.

Or perhaps a sugar coma.