Last night I did something I haven't done in quite a while - I stayed up super late to finish a book. True, I only read four hours last night, but I didn't start until midnight. (Why did I start reading a book about six hours after I wanted to go to bed? It's a mystery. I'm not qualified to make good decisions after 10:00 pm.) I kept telling myself I would read just one more chapter; just one more. By the time it was three in the morning, I knew I was going to finish, so I stopped fighting it. When I did finish, I was wide awake wondering how I was going to get just a bit of sleep for work today when all of a sudden my alarm was going off and it was two hours later. I must have problems distinguishing between tired and not tired.
It was a good book and very engaging -
The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins - but nothing life changing by any means. (Spoiler alert: It did make my cry in the middle. I give Lady MacBeth a hard time for crying at movies, but nothing makes me cry like books do.) And now I'm left to sip caffeine all day and wait for the chance to take a nap.
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