It is 7 am and I am standing in the software aisle at Best Buy contemplating how to break it to my manager that I am, in fact, unfit to work this morning.

I have slept seven hours in the past three days. My last attempt was a nap between 5:30 and 6:30 this morning. I had just begun to drift off when my alarm went off and I broke into such a sob that my ears burned and I cried off all my makeup. I have not showered, but my hair is still in the bun I fastened it into, post-shower, yesterday.

I pondered just sleeping in. Calling in with a lie. Or maybe explain the truth, what I am really afraid to admit: THAT I THINK I CAN DO IT, BUT THIS TIME, I CANNOT.

I know if I go to my manager and explain this to him, he will be more than understanding. He will look at me sympathetically and tell me to go home and rest up. But I just can’t do it. It’s not even *pride*, it’s just…I don’t know. I can barely even form sentences right now let alone analyze my fear.

Then again, with the way I look right now, all he needs is to take one look at me before sending me home.

I look like death warmed over.

Worse than that:
I could take you down to Bloomington Hospital morgue and show you some fresh bodies that would look beautiful by comparison.

But I won’t. Because I’m too damn tired.