Good morning, world!

I'm frustrated my sleep is all messed up, but it has nothing to do with the late hours I've been pulling lately. Instead, my insurance company has decided to question my psychiatrist about why I need Ambien, which means I've been without for nearly a week now. I've gotten about nine hours' sleep since Tuesday, with most of that being Thursday night after taking some doxylamine in desperation. Not sleeping means not eating. Not eating means Paul pretty much had to guilt me into trying one of the Valentine's Day truffles he bought me. It was great -- he did well! -- but I felt sick well into the night. Haven't eaten since.

The extra wakey-wakey hours have given me a chance to reconnect with my iPod, play a lot of Castlevania and watch some videos I'd been putting off for a while. I'm having enough fun that I'd probably continue to keep these hours if I could do it with no side effects.

I think the part that annoys Paul the most is that I'm a morning person through and through. Even when I'm not doing the insomnia thing, my morning M.O. is to wake up before my alarm goes off, get something to drink, turn on CNBC to catch up on the markets, and check my online news feeds before I shower. On the other hand, he sets two alarms, still hits the snooze button, then stumbles into the shower in hopes it will wake him up. He watches Sportscenter ("I don't have to think when I watch it," he says, taking a small dig at my CNBC habit) and pretty much doesn't speak from the time he wakes up to the time he says, "Bye, honey," on his way out the door.

There's something about morning that feels so ... new. How can people not absolutely love that feeling?