I’ve been awake for exactly 12 hours and 6 minutes as I type. This week has been so emotionally draining that my mind and body decided to bless me with nine entire hours of sleep. It was glorious and I spent most of the day feeling like a superhero. I felt wonderful right up until the moment my body decided to be totally uncool.

The biggest annoyance of being middle age is how sometimes my body, specifically my stomach and intestines, wages all out war on me for unknown reasons.

Tonight I lovingly prepared a cajun chicken pasta for dinner. I chopped the peppers and garlic. I blackened the chicken. I whisked up a roux to make your mama weep. It was delicious and I enjoyed it for the entire 45 minutes it stayed in my body.

I have zero idea why my body decided to reject this lovely meal so quickly and disgustingly. Hubris, is my guess. I’m eating dumb toast and my body’s like, “cool. cool. cool.”

How did I end up talking about poop when my intention was to write a love letter to my bed, specifically my new quilt? Let’s blame it on being a little feverish and exhausted.

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