jet lag

It's four-something in the morning and I can't sleep. I forgot about jet lag.

I kind of thought that if I drank enough champagne to pass out on the plane, I'd be right on schedule, circadian rhythms intact. I mean, I flew across the ocean in the Virgin Atlantic Upper Class section, which, OH MY.

If anyone ever asks me, "What was the point at which you started feeling a huge sense of entitlement and accustomed to the finer things in life?" I'll say, "Virgin Atlantic. Upper Class. Word."

You don't get a seat, you get a cocoon. Which folds into a bed. You get champagne upon boarding and a several-course meal and slippers and a TV with infinity movies and you can go stand at the full bar and order from a bartender, shoot the shit with the other aristocrats en flight.

I drank, some would say heavily, on this flight and ended up passing out in my bed hugging a box of chocolates that I barely remember scarfing. This may actually explain why my body's rhythms are still screwed; Any substance abuse counselor will tell you that that doesn't qualify as a good night's sleep, which brings me to now:

In my London hotel room with the television tuned to the Christmas countdown of holiday-themed music videos. People, I don't like holiday-themed anything but am officially a shell of my former self.

I can't sleep and I've read my brains out and am now too tired, yet JACKED, to make sense of words and just need noise, even if it's CHRISTMAS NOISE. Yes, that is how low it's gotten for me. The only thing that makes it even slightly okay for me to watch a video by Wizzard called "I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day" or anything by Take That is the saucy middle-aged woman dancing in the corner of the screen, supposedly signing an interpretation of the lyrics.

Though I'm not convinced that she even knows sign language. I think she's high. And I want what she's on.