Last night I went to the midnight write-in for my region. I left the house both emotionally and physically drained so it was little wonder that as soon as I found parking I went searching for a big, steaming cup of coffee. Despite the fact that it was already late, I drank and drank cup after cup.
The write-in was hosted at a local coworking spot which closed long before we showed up. There I continued to drink the java rationalizing that I needed it to stay awake so I could write at midnight. The joint was chilled, and I did nothing but complicate my own problems with nearly two liters of caffeine enriched diuretic bean juice. I was cold to the bone. To Build a Fire cold. Freaking cold despite a layer of wool and an insulating shell over that.
I wrote about 1,000 words fighting of my self inflected hypothermia and regretting my stupidity after the clock struck midnight. I made it until about one in the morning before I felt the first precarious dip in my chemical stimulation. I packed up everything as quickly as I could and made a bee line to my truck. A quick jog around the block helped keep me awake until I pulled into the drive moments later and then my body felt leaden and unusable. Bonking hardcore I crawled under the covers.
And then I stared at the dark ceiling for what seemed an eternity unable to find sleep.
Now I’m up, dressed, and sipping herbal tea. I’m seated at the Rec Center trying desperately to clear my system of last night’s abuses and reading what I banged out on Counterfeit Horizon. Yikes! Talk about crashing the plane before it leaves the tarmac, this is some scary stuff.
Next time, I think I’ll act my age, stick to my patterns, and respect my habits. That was a mistake. Derp derp derp.