The kind zippy exhaustion that caffine creates / by Christina Rosalie

has swept over me this morning. I woke up so many times last night I lost count, to the thrashing limbs of my baby boy. I recall saying FUCK around 2 a.m. when his pacifire, which he so dearly loves, could not be found. And this morning, burrying my head in the thick down of my pillows, reluctant beyond all measure to be awake. The day is already like the blurred air around a whirling dirvish. Of center. There is no excuse, no real reason for this jittery unhappiness. But things keep piling up.