I had really quaint times with some mattresses I found on the street the day before yesterday. I'd like to talk about that sometime. Quality rest has been evasive. Effects are creeping, in my burning heart that keeps me from sleep lately. Mom told me yesterday, "You only get one esophagus in this life, Rachael.", in a 'go get 'em tiger' tone. My ever nonchalant confidante. But honestly, I have to love my naivety. All I need do is scramble the words of my own canned advice around in the brain, until they are nonsense and almost deafening, so that I might dismiss them without much effort. It is easier just to mumble 'last time', and try to think clearly until the next day, when I allow myself to think in nonsense so that I can give into it. Whatever 'it' is. It could be too many reasons to count, while my knashers continue to degenerate. Almost two years going strong, and what a pretty portrait to paint. It should look like the canvas done by Uncle Bruce in college, hanging above Grandma's day bed. Hulking and vomitous, paint splats in garish hues. Was anybody else ever afraid that the thing was going to fall on them while they were watching television? It wasn't secured properly.