It is 3:44am and Mrs. G. woke up two hours ago, drenched, clammy with sweat and cruelly ripped from a dream involving she, Angelica Houston and avocado green shag carpet. She rolled out of bed, took a cool shower, slapped on another round of Mitchum (she can no longer skip a day) put on a fresh, cotton nightshirt, crawled back in bed and tried to go back to sleep.
And then she got back up. And then she laid back down. And then she got back up. This is the rational portion of the ode. The part you could humorously share with your co-workers or church ladies or foster-children of Silence and slow Time. Here's the part of the ode you should probably keep to yourself if you have self-respect or a need to be taken seriously when the situation demands it.
When Mrs. G. got out of bed for the third time, she grabbed a bag bowl of Barbara's Cheese Puffs and a diet Dr. Pepper, snuck off to her study/guest/escape from Mr. G's snoring room and wept through most of of the movie We Bought a Zoo, despite an abiding aversion to Scarlett Johanson and zoos.
And here she is, writing, simultaneously dead tired and wide awake. Twired.
Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
It might be time for some TV Ambien Law & Order.