Rosy's Ultimatum

I am yawning, trembling, and bleary.

Rosy looks at me. "What the hell is wrong witchu?"

I look at her. I tell her the tale of the parking lot. She giggles. "But what else?" Then she answers her own question. "Girlfriend, you are fried. You are done. You are a crispy critter."

I tell her what an astute observer she is.

"Yeah, well fuck that, when are you going on vacation? Aanh, don't give me that look. Another week of this and I just might have to put you out of your misery." (NB: This was not a terroristic threat. It probably involved copious amounts of Corona and tequila.)

I am miserable.

"You look fucking miserable."

"I am."

"I don't care where you go. Pick a hotel in Pleasantville and go there."

Oh no. The hoteliers of Pleasantville are my own Zagat-approved Trail of Tears.

"Pick someplace. Just pick someplace and go over night. The cats can live without you for one night."

During the day, I have fallen asleep in the parking deck, twice. Nodded off during a conference call.

At one point, I noted down all my symptoms and Googled them: Clammy, exhausted, trembling, muscle spasms and Google handed me back pages and pages and pages on anxiety.

It was 3:30. I was done for the day.

"Go home and sleep," she said. "And when you come back, you better have a reservation from Priceline in your hand."

And so I will. I have a place in mind in the country. All I require is a room dark and chill as a cave, soundless as one, too. And if it happens to have a very deep tub, so much the better.