There is something very, very wrong with me

My little rugrat is at the vet getting her little girly parts clipped or snipped or tied or whatever procedure they do, so I've been home alone the past few nights. One would think that I'd take advantage of this glorious opportunity and get some work done around the house in the absence of a little creature chasing my heals, jumping into my piles of swept dirt, and playing in the sink I'm trying to scrub. One would think. Instead, I do nothing. I sit. I flip listlessly through a new magazine. I summon from all corners of my body the energy to pull myself off of the couch and carry my lifeless limbs to bed. I'm tired. While getting out of bed in the morning is a torture of the Abu Ghraib variety, staying awake once out of bed is an odious chore of epic proportions. I fall asleep while writing in my journal before work. I fall asleep on the way to work. This morning I fell asleep at my desk and knocked my coffee into my lap. I fall asleep after lunch. Last night I nodded off as I was driving down my street, passing my house right up.

Maybe it's the weather. The cold air beckons for hibernation. Or maybe my constant motion over the last few months is finally catching up. Or maybe (and I hope this isn't the case) my body is fighting off some insidious virus which has invaded my body in pursuit of treachery. I don't know. What I do know is that it is nearly 8:30 and I could fall asleep as I'm typing this blog.