This not being able to sleep when tired thing. Again.
This burning desire to take the margarine tub from the fridge, mix cinnamon and sugar in a bowl, and liberally use a spoon to dip into both.
This dry chill outside producing the cough that lingers. And lingers.
Something in all this blechiness makes me want to confess that tonight I've been (trying) sleeping in this Wes Welker jersey.
I'm confessing because I did not buy it. I confess I didn't know who Patriots WR Wes Welker was until 6 weeks ago, when walking to Shaw's at JFK late one Sunday night. I confess that this jersey lay mid-sidewalk outside The Stadium on Old Colony Ave and upon seeing it, I did not leave it for its owner to find or drop it inside the bar for safekeeping. I instead picked it up and stuffed it in my backpack. I took it home and washed it. And now I wear it to bed pretty regularly.
So. I'm sorry, you, whoever dropped Wes Welker's number on the ground never to see it again. I'm sorry that I like this jersey very, very much.
(There. Feel better now. Maybe the guilt was keeping me awake? Maybe now there Might. Just. Be. Sleep?)