The insipid rage of an insomniac. If I weren’t so doggone tired I’d be on a real rant. But I don’t have the energy. It’s 3:30 a-flippin’-m. It’s so late in the early morning that some people are already getting up to start their day. I’ve been trying to sleep for over four hours. I took melatonin. Per my doctor’s orders I should not be taking Ambien. I’m doing all the “good sleep hygiene” things they recommend. Warm bath, not too hot. Gentle reading (a Lincoln biography), turn out the lights. Light blanket, ceiling fan, the cat in her proper place . . . one hour passes. Nothing. So I got up and looked at Indian jewelry on eBay. Back to bed. Another hour passes. I got up and gave myself a pedicure, drank warm milk with honey, heated up my special corn husk comfort wrap. I’m too tired to read—my eyes don’t focus at this hour. But I’m going to try again to go to bed, perchance to sleep, already knowing that I’m going to be a zombie when the day comes, no matter what. If it doesn’t work this time, I’m going to go outside and work in the garden. It’s almost light anyway.