It's 3 a.m., do you know where my sanity is?

I like sleep.

Actually, let me amend that. I LOVE sleep. If you asked me to describe my perfect day it would surely start off with me sleeping in as long as I possibly could. Sleep it does the body good.

But here I am. Staring at my computer for what will be the fourth consecutive night of having no more than 4 hours. Tonight, it will be around 90 minutes. And all this wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have RAGING cramps and drinking the mass amounts of coffee I need exacerbates the crampage.

Catch 22.

Flow was two days late and she is making me pay. It's not like i didn't have her room all ready for her. She just missed the train.

Among the things keeping me awake tonight other than cramps and my usual amount of bitterness is the phrase, "you're too much?" Can someone tell me what this means and is it a compliment?

I was in court the other day and an attorney who is relatively cool comes in and starts commiserating with the clerk and I about having to "hurry up and wait" in this particular courtroom. She looks down at my foot and asks if that is a tattoo on my toe. I say, "yup" and she laughs and says, "you're too much."

What does that mean and why am I too much because I have a tattoo on my toe? I know it's just a figure of speech but if you think about it, it makes no sense. Is being too much a good thing? Should people be scared? Watch out for her, she's too much. Too much of what?

Too much crazy apparently because any sane person would be sleeping now. I have nothing to really say. No enlightening thoughts, news or otherwise. What I have learned today? There are a ton hymen disorders out there (don't ask). While interesting, this bit of knowledge is virtually useless to me having never had a hymen disorder and not having a hymen for quite some time now.

Why have I taken up a Triscuit addiction and Stew is helping himself to my Red Stripe? And why does he think that I am crazy to think that every place should carry Red Stripe? They looked at me like I was smoking crack when I was at T'Gin last and asked for a Red Stripe. Okay, so it wasn't a Guinness, go ahead and boil me like a freaking potato but don't insult yourself (and me) by offering me a Corona instead because if you're going to turn your nose up at a Jamaican beer don't get all UN on me, Mon. That would be like me saying I want Mexican food and Stew taking me to Taco Bell.

"Not every bar has Red Stripe, Lulu," he says like I'm asking for something so exotic.

Why f-ing not? If almost every bar we go to has Guinness. So I insult Stew's senses and order a Heineken just for spite.

Actually, I am off the sauce. The last time I was out I had 3 pint glasses of Stella and despite the fact I was buzzed after half of glass one I kept swallowing anyway. Stew had to pretty much lead me to the car where he said I quickly became "a mess." I passed out but apparently not before thinking i could have an entire conversation with Stew using a series of gutteral "mmmmms" "nnnnths" and "mhhheemmms" I still can't believe he couldn't understand me. If I have to learn to tell the difference between a witnesses' "uh-uh" and "uh-huh" the least he could do is decode my mumbles and not force me to use words. Anyway, I was hungover so bad the following day that just thinking about it turns me off of drinking despite the fact that I want to.

It's wing night tonight. Salad pizza and wings. Twenty cent wings. Yum. Sad to say the thought will keep me going all day despite the fact I have had no appetite for anything not coated in chocolate for the past three days.