I absolutely cannot remember the last time I got a good night's sleep. I think it was sometime before August 2005.
This is obviously turning into a problem (since I am blogging at 7am after having been awake since 4:30 counting the dust particles on my ceiling fan, which has introduced many existential Horton Hears A Who dilemmas).
While it's easy to blame the Medicolegal Investigation of Death which has largely been distracting me with its page-turning photos of tissue remnants of air crash victims, people buried at sea, suicide victims who cut their own throats (always, Dr. Spitz says optimistically, with "hesitation marks" - as if that makes a difference) and yes, a head "nibbled at by a small dog," I think the real problem lies with my inability to keep absolutely still.
My sister and I used to play this game when I was young, where one person would pretend to be a corpse and the other would inflict all manners of painful injuries in order to make the person move. We both built up an incredible tolerance for pain. It's probably no accident she's in intelligence.
All I know right now is that you could probably put bamboo shoots under my fingernails, punch me in the solar plexus, and waterboard me - but why go to that effort? Just don't let me sleep and all the US secrets you want are yours. Well, if I had any to dole out. I'm sure I could make up a few.
Oh, exhausted. Exhausted, exhausted, exhausted.