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Tuesday July 17 2001 - 12:14 p.m. Gah. I think that sums it up nicely. My stomach hurts. My head is weird. I feel like I'm packed in cotton. I can't hold a thought for longer than a few seconds. It's actually pretty amusing. I just don't feel very well. I need lunch. And I think I need sleep. My body seems to have given up that nasty habit, sleep. Once again. Sleep. Sleeeeeep. Jason asks me at night, "What are you doing?" I want to tell him I'm trying to go to sleep, but he doesn't believe me any more. I think he's worried or frustrated that I can't manage to get into dreamland. Last night I slept fairly well until around 12:30 or so. That's unbelievably frustrating, to wake up, look at the clock, and realize you have to get through several more hours. I thought I was doing really well until I saw the time. That was a disappointment. I tell my brain, "Don't think," but it doesn't listen. Usually. I almost feel like I'm doing something wrong, like I feel sorta guilty. I should be able to sleep. I'm failing some sort of test, somehow. I'm really not as disturbed about it as I sound. Inflection is hard to convey, you know. Really, it's more like a clinical interest. It's more...weird than anything else. I have a warm and fat cat on my lap. Damn, is she fat. Well. I suppose I'll talk to you later, mon amies. Give yourselves a squoosh for me.
-Mlle R
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