Here’s why I know I am no motherfucking Janis Joplin rockstar playa scene queen no more (as if I ever were). Now, I fucking enjoy breakfast after a sober, good night’s sleep as much as a all night carouse.

Janis once said “I don’t sleep. I might miss a party.” I’m on edge thinking I might miss the talk of a healthy or big break-y in the morning.

lAlthough my will, my desire, my absolute resolve to sleep was not meant to be. Two divergent realities kept me from my true quest.

Firstly, there are two forces by which travel will always be focused by me. One is moving my bowels, either too much or too little, I will say no more since too much has been said. The other is my complete inability to just fucking sleep anywhere or any time strange and different. Just can’t do it.

I tend to sleep not at all or not well in unfamiliar surroundings. I admire the restive, peaceful faces when I have had houseguests. (M., I think, is the same way judging by the tosses and turns counted in our first nights of any stay.)

Right about now, I’m one thin sleepless line to the psychotic breach of, say, a tortured visitor to Guatanamo.

The second conspirator against my sleep chances and beyond myself was a troubled friend. The only thing is that I can say decades of shitty, shitty relationship experiences and living through to the other side of a veritable Goldilocks, just right existence, give me a bit of gravitas. Having lived through stupid and lovelorn, I feel qualified a bit to offer advice and a shoulder on stupid and lovelorn.

Another cup of tea might make me right as rain or tick me a few more degrees toward edgy psychosis.