And, of course, I cannot sleep. I was all set to settle in at about 10 or 10:30, but I couldn't keep my eyes closed and when the boy calls me, "Sweetie," I wonder, as this is only the second time he's done it, and the brain won't turn off...
Yes, I'm almost positive that that sentence had no predicate. Or point.
For some reason, I don't want to go to bed. I shouldn't worry. I was able to wake myself before the nightmare I began last night got into full swing. And the name of the "procedure" amused the boy very much. But the visual, and the almost visceral feeling, scared the bejeezus out of me.
I think I know why. One, because the winning designer on Project Runway All-Stars had a dress that looked like a suicide bomber's frock, and two, because I'm afraid that the conversation I need to have is going to sound more like the bomb and less like the dress.
Kisses, all.
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