Wee-Hour Whining

I woke up from a nightmare to a room that was too-hot, and I couldn't remember why. Opening my eyes, I realized the shade on the bedroom window had been pulled down, and no air was coming in. I staid in bed a while, eyes closed, listening to the rhythm of Fuzzy and the dogs as they breathed sleep in and out of their mouths, as one.

But the room felt wrong, and my teeth itch, and I have a stress-induced ear-ache that's throbbing, pulsing really. Not enough pressure to blow out easily, and yet enough to be really bothersome. Ick.

So I got up, and opened the door, and the air out in the hall was deliciously cool, like a soft sigh against my skin, and now I'm sitting here, far too much ibuprofen later, and trying to decide not if I should go back to sleep, because I'm exhausted, but if I can.

I've toyed with a wet washcloth and cool water, and that's helped some, but my movements woke the dogs, and they're in here now, under my desk, guarding my feet from the treacherous cables, wires, and odd pieces of lint that wait there to torture me.

Or something.

Hey, you try being coherent while in pain at three am.
(Computer clock's wrong, I know this. It says 2:45 but the cable box says 3:08 amd now I'm idly wondering if other people have mini timewarps in their houses, too, or if it's just me. We won't even go into the pre-coffee math involved in knowing how many times one can hit the snooze button.)

Bed. Is. Calling.
I. Shall. Answer.