I watched the neon green numbers of my giant digital clock progress slowly and steadily, with each change confirming that yes, I was going to be tired in the morning. I watched the dot that designates PM hours disappear, and then started the ever-depressing calculations of how much sleep I would get. It's not so bad, I'd mutter, I can still get 5 hours and 45 minutes... or 5 hours...
And so it went. I basked in the eerie glow of my clock, chosen for its 4-inch numbers - visible from a small distance when I am without my contacts and therefore, as blind as a bat - and its irresistible, foghorn-like blast of an alarm. A conveyor belt of a to-do list cycled through my head, despite the fact that I had no way of chipping away at it. "E-mail Amy," it hummed, "Call about the guitar ... Call Dad to wish him a happy birthday - " Oh, crap! I forgot to call my dad! I rummaged on my crowded nightstand for a pen to scrawl Call Dad on my palm with thoughts of being The Bad Daughter flitting across the to-do list. Better late than never, right? Like sleep?
Come morning, after I somehow exhausted myself to sleep and had stressful dreams involving being late for flights and not wearing the right shoes for running, I woke up to the insistent blare of my alarm. I managed to rise eventually, but I did not shine.
I need a nap.