I am insomnia's bitch.

I couldn't sleep. I lay in cool darkness for hours, awake, letting the stream of thoughts and sounds and images run through my head, hoping it would ease me into sleep.

Finally, I got up. I was thirsty and couldn't get the Beatles out of my head. I stopped at the computer and put on "Revolution," then went into the kitchen for some ice water.

As I opened the freezer, I caught a flash of movement in my peripheral vision. In the next instant, my brain deciphered the image and came up with a bad conclusion: earwig.

Earwigs freak me out. They make my skin crawl. I don't have many phobias, but earwigs are one. I backed up. I pulled out my can of industrial-strength bug killer ("¡Mata cucarachas!"), took aim, and fired. The bug took off at mach two; I jumped backward instinctively, slipped on the tile floor, and landed (hard) on Cricket's food and water dishes.

Oh my God, my back. My back.

I picked myself up, cleaned up the dry cat food, wiped up the water, cleaned the dishes and refilled them, got my ice water (casting nervous glances at the window ledge), and took some Advil. As I sit here, my back is starting to hurt, along with my butt and my mouth (I think I clopped my teeth together pretty hard). My hands, wrists, and upper back hurt from trying to break my fall. And all I can think is that sucker better be dead.

And with that, I'm going back to bed.

The Killer Headache of Doom has taken over my personal Central Command. Ibuprofen forces are in full retreat, and the Midrin Division is missing in action. There will be no backup artillery until tomorrow. For now, CentCom has only one weapon left: half a Vicodin.

At this point, everything I hear dopplers in and out with my pulse, the volume rising and falling like a sine wave. My eyes are at half-mast to avoid the light. I'm thinking about that Vicodin.

Tomorrow morning, I'm getting my thyroid levels checked. (Aren't you envious?) I haven't checked them in months, and I'm fairly sure that something's not right. The amount of medication I need changes in response to weight, stress, season, diet, phases of the moon, changes in the NASDAQ, and exposure to BushSpeak, so it's entirely possible that I need a different dose.

While I'm there, I can get some headache-killer Midrin. I would not be surprised if I still have the headache tomorrow morning.

Tomorrow afternoon, I'm getting fresh highlights and a badly-needed haircut. Spending a few hours being pampered and gossiping with my hairstylist is a perfect way to unwind from a grim and boring morning. And I always feel better with good hair.

But for now, the Killer Headache of Doom is squashing my spirits.

music: my head pounding