Why Sleep Won't Come

I am writing my maiden blog on this fine October afternoon, rather than do the smart thing and take a nap while my nine-month-old son takes his. Stupid, I know, but the idea of time spent typing, rather than chasing and snatching, proved too alluring even for my twisted, tired back. Plus, I found some Cheerios and Ritz crackers on the bottom of my sock, and that just made me want to find out where I could have picked up the grains and breads group on my travels this morning. Answer: The bathroom rug. No, I don't know how. Oh, I will pay, yes. For the Cheerios, no. For lack of shuteye, you bet. And yet, I say, ah screw it, use that worn out adage of sleeping when you're dead, blah, blah. Plus, I've been promising I don't know how many people I was going to start writing again (and yes, I'm aware I haven't left anyone hanging precipitiously on the edge of their seats with my sabbatical). I figure I may as well starting churning slowly now, get the rust shaken off the gears and cogs, and try to get on some other similie or metaphor that would go with the rest of that imagery. So I'll cut this short for now and write later, if I can, indeed, post this successfully. The bed's looking pretty good now, is what I really mean...