Between the work retreat in Napa and this weekend, I’ve been spending too much time staring at imaginary cracks in strange ceilings. We spent the weekend in the big city of San Francisco on ocassion of their marathon. I hung around in boutique hotel chi-chi-ness whilst M. ran until his natural resources were depleted and stopped at 26.2 miles.

What I know is, I don’t sleep so good on strange bedding and surroundings. I imagine my slutty years were all about insomnia really. I mean if you’re out partying and you crash somewhere, if you know you won’t sleep, you have to occupy your time somehows.

Now, without the excess boozing and the sedate lifestyle, I’m left to lying awake and feeling miserably tired. On the plus side, the early morning self-recriminations are nowhere to be found.

If whining about sleeplessness isn’t enough, in addition to luxury hotels I’m done with cuisine. For about 7 solid days, I’ve dined out on finely prepared, sumptuous food, and I’m bloated and overstuffed. Bologna on whitebread is the level of richness I could currently stand.

To summarize, I think I’ve just mind-melded with the emotional depth that is Paris Hilton.