You think you're so smart, don't you. You have this humungous congress and know exactly how much they knacker you and so you arrange to spend the weekend at your best friend's place so you can thwart your insomniac tendencies by actually managing to get a good few hours of sleep.
First day ends, you're knackered. You go to your friend's place and, bcs you were daft enough to become your friend's personal shopper, she actually develops a fashion sense, starts knowing what becomes her and decides to model her entire wardrobe bfr you so she can prepare for the summer in all their combined glories. You finally manage to shut her up, force her to cover herself at last for fuck's sake and both leave to go to your friend Shrimpy's for dinner. Once there you choose spaghetti bolognese, strong in the knowledge that your iron-clad stomach thinks nothing of pasta at 22.30. Both your friends are enzymatically exuberant and think nothing of downing several alcoholic beverages and a few cups of coffee. Tweedle then decides that, bcs she had coffee, she should drink some more so she can fall asleep. Shrimpy doesn't sleep anyway (people think your insomnia is vicious, it's a duckling in comparison) so what the bloody hell, care for some more Port?
At abt midnight you head back and go to bed. Tweedle is tossing and turning, alcohol didn't do its trick after all, the woman is wide awake and STILL TALKING, so you offer her one of your beloved Stilnoxes. She asks Are you sure, you only have a few left and you say Go ahead, it's all right, and she says I'm pretty sure I won't be able to fall asleep anyway even with it and promptly starts snoring. You were already finding it hard to get comfortable, a strange bed is always the pits, but this? And she hasn't been taught to roll over on command either. After a while you get tired of getting up to rearrange her on the bed, twat snores in every position it would seem, so you get up and shlep pillow and duvet into living-room, where you spend some fun 10 minutes trying to increase sleeping surface by strategically positioning stools and chairs right next to the very minute sofa. After another good while you find yourself remotely comfortable even if it involves one leg half on the table, and are beginning to believe you will fall asleep after all when you start feeling a bizarre vibration. Oh wait, not a stampede after all, got it. There is a tiny communicating space up on the wall btwn bedroom and living-room and you've never felt more grateful. Disbelievingly, you waddle into the bedroom and there she is, on her back, snoring like a lumberjack. You can hear it everywhere. Well, fucks very much.
You finally realise that, at 2.30, there's noting left to do but pack your bags and return to Lisbon. Which you do. Twat hasn't budged the whole time, AMAZING HOW THAT STILNOX DIDN'T WORK AND SEE IF I CARE THE NEXT TIME YOU CANNOT FALL ASLEEP, BEYOTCH.
You are beginning to think everyone else on the planet can metabolise alcohol. You get home and it's almost 3.00, and your pasta is also very much awake. See, one of the good consequences of your miscarriage was that a) your progesterone went through the roof and now your iron-clad stomach is no more and you have reflux, and/or b) lovely Helycobater pilorii has taken advantadge of your immuno-suppressed status, God knows your plicae have never seen such fun bfr, and now your iron-clad stomach is no more and you have reflux. Did you just bend over? NEVER BEND OVER, your rectum will fall out! At around 5 am you start getting sleepy even though the aggravation of knowing you will in no way be able to get up at 8 am and will therefore miss the entire morning of Saturday slightly gets in the way. Most of the windows in the buildings are out. Sleeping, seriously, isn't everyone?
On Saturday afternoon Tweedle rings you, very much unaware of the fact that her life is in danger, silly cow thought nothing of the chaos in the living-room, or the fact that her keys were on the table, or the fact that your things are gone. She becomes very embarrassed and apologetic but you don't care, you're still not speaking to her. And you'll certainly never share your drugs again with the unworthy, you've learnt your lesson. On Saturday evening you decide you hate Anthony Kiedis bcs he is preventing you from sleeping. Again. You actually like the Red Hot Chilli Peppers but not when it feels as though they're screaming right outside your window even if they're half way across the city. Bloody live concerts.
You have also decided you will name your daughter Cândida [you do have such a name in Portugal], should you ever have one, and you hope she marries a Dutchman so she'll end up calling herself, say, Candida Kooter, and her sultry remake of Yeasterday will hit the charts at number one all across Europe bcs, seriously, the amount of damage one single, semi-detached, Northern-exposed embryo can do even after it's gone is beginning to be utterly ridiculous and now there's fungal war in your nether regions as well. You suppose it still wants your undivided attention. [Undivided = non viable, get it?][Yes, one of your best ones, you know.] The Dr. took a look today [ute and ovaries are perfectly fine] and said Yes, definitely a Candida. See? Your daughter-to-be's fate has a medical stamp of approval.
You have also properly bonded with the Dr. At the end, as you were already standing, she asks you Any final questions? You say Well, I just want to be sure you'll never blow on my cooter. She says I beg your pardon? You say Your colleague did once, she was a bit demented, I fear. She hurt me by mistake and blew on my cooter to make it all better. It still haunts me. She opens and closes her mouth a few times and says I think I can promise you I won't. You say I think we'll get along famously then.