25 Days of Cripmas: Rockabye, Baby

Right about now, I'm wondering what the hell made me think I could commit to something 25 nights in a row.  I had the best of intentions, but it's winter and I'm crippled and achy and depressed. Cripples are always achy, but it's worse in the winter. Cold air is the devil; it seems to have the maniacally magical ability to turn one's joints into so many rusted hinges and tighten all of one's muscles -- which sucks double-time for those of us whose joints had their billionth birthday the second we popped out of the womb, and whose muscles are already perpetually wound too tightly. If I were a guitar, I'd lose a string the second somebody touched me.

My body is telling me to hibernate. Sleep, little crippled baby, sleep. Rest your aches away. No need to clean this place or pick up the phone or go anywhere; just sleep. And I must say, unlike previous years, this year there is (gratefully) less of the depression -- or at least of the kind of depression that leaves me sobbing at random intervals, and walking around with a frown on my face so heavy I can feel it pulling down on the corners of my mouth. No, I'm not exactly sad ... just tired. Sleep, says my brain. Sleep.

There's a clinical term for this, but I can't remember it. Not hypersomnia, although that is also apt. Something else. Something I saw in the DSM once as a sign or a type of clinical depression, but can't quite remember. I think it starts with an L.

Anyhow, enough rambling. I shall now treat you to some funnies about sleep, and laziness in general.

My beast a few winters back.