Dear Ambien,

My moving stress is still happening. I keep pretending like it's over, that I'm all settled in and that everything is cool, but I keep forgetting that 4 months ago I was driving across the country with my dog in cage and my mom riding shotgun and my dad a few miles ahead of us in a giant U-Haul. We stayed in a Red Roof Inn together and I cried the next morning at Bob Evans. Four months ago. That's it. Since then, I've had a total of 4 jobs, one new roomate, one dog with a major separation anxiety problem (still working on this one), several nervous breakdowns, a terrible back problem, an insane boss (the one I have now), one bedroom that is so crowded with furniture that I can't walk around in it, at least 6 incidents where I've either gotten totally lost or ended up in nightmarish traffic situations, and drank approximately 200 beers and 30 bottles of wine. And slept maybe 5 hours a night if I'm lucky. Not to mention the whole RMV incident(s). And having to quit a job in the middle of it. Two jobs, actually. And saying no to two interviews recently even though I'm not so sure about my new job. Through all of this, I haven't gotten sick or hurt (except the back issue, which was completely linked to a terrible job situation). I've moved all of my furniture twice. I'm learning how to live with someone again. Jesus Christ, I deserve some kind of medal. Or flowers (I bought myself some today). Or a vintage black leather Coach shoulder bag (ditto).

And you, Ambien. I forgot you were still around. I'm going to drink a bottle of Chimay with NU tonight, I hope, while we assemble her Christmas tree. Then I will drift into your blissful ether, and hopefully I will awaken feeling human again. Sleeplessness makes me into a robot and robots aren't good writers. They're good office-slaves, but I want to be a writer too. Thank you for understanding this. See you soon.

Love,
Shrew