The Uphill Drive To The Ambien Pit

Sleep and Not.

Write and Not.

Comes the blanketing of the sky, thick clouds bursting forth from a small oblong pill.

There's Fine work to do, a specific handicraft called to task, and I'm wearing giant mittens made out of wooly-thought.

Swat at the walls with kite-sized mittens held hamfisted and ungainly, making a mess.

The need to sleep and the wish to not. Groggily we roll along, roll along, roll along! Tetchily we stomp it down, stomp it down, stomp it down!

Stomp it down, Skippy. It's time to surrender to the pill, even though it couldn't be buggered to better itself, fashion itself into an ambien CR. No, this ambien is a one-pump-chump, so I only get one shot at, well, the shot.

If my fingers stop aping my thoughts (such as they are) because I've wandered away from the MacBook Pro and, say, out into the flirty-bitter Dead Night Air of Northern Pennsylvania, how will they eulogize the irony of the small thoughts vanquishing the big head; how will they work their irenics to spin the dull dun deed into a rainbow of ironics?

How will they explain Thomas A-Quinone using his unstoppable force of mind to move the unmovable frozen body of the God of Ambien into Toby's Creek (pron: crick)? As nothing more than an attempt at a recipe he found in 1978 Mixologists Bible?

They slap their heads in a dozen individual “ah ha!” moments as they land on the final product: Gin & Chthonics!

Except they didn't become 100% sure until the limes were dropped in the tumblers.

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