After a Rock Band marathon stretching past the hours of morning which could be considered “wee”, my dear dear friend sabominator dropped a Lunesta into my open palm, ushering in one of the best nights of sleep I’ve had in months.
I was so uncharacteristically well-rested at brunch the next morning and so incredibly pleased with my meal of bellini(s?) and smoked-salmon benedict,
that I could easily overlook how the back of my throat tasted like a field of rotting, pulverized wildflowers.
Last night was my third Lunesta evening, and, at this point, I think I’m done with it. Like seriously, it’s Monday now and I can’t drink half a bottle of champagne every fucking morning to distract myself from the nagging sensation that I spent the previous night chewing, swallowing, and unceremoniously regurgitating about a half-acre of dandelions.
Ugh. Queasy.
