I don’t even know what all right means

1. Gozo was faaaaaabulous. I’d forgotten how very very much I love it there. It’s strange how much I love it, actually, considering how totally unsuited I am for that kind of climate. There’s pretty much an audible sizzle the second I step off the plane. On my first full day there I missed a spot near my collarbone when applying my SPF 1000 sunscreen and then went for a walk and came back with a fire-engine red triangle on my chest. You could even see the outline of the necklace I was wearing. Living in the British Isles was really the best choice I could make for my own survival.

My mom is basically a ninja when it comes to finding vacation rentals. We stayed in a little flat in Xlendi overlooking the bay. This was the view from the balcony:

Xlendi Bay, Gozo

LOOK AT THAT WATER. I didn’t get to swim as much as I’d hoped, though. On my second day I was splashing around when the lifeguard called me over and told me that they were advising people not to swim that week as there’d been an accident a few days earlier and SEWAGE had been dumped in the bay. GACK. I spent the rest of the day huddled Crying Game style in the shower. I’m still confused about how this could possibly have happened. It’s a tiny, tiny bay, with cliffs on two sides and no open pipes leading into the water. Almost the entire accessible waterfront is taken up with bars and restaurants, except for a tiny beach. Did some sewage-truck driver have a “fuck it” sort of day and just upend into the sea? (This is actually not implausible for Gozo. Health and safety regulations are viewed much more as optimistic suggestions.)

Apart from being rendered forever unclean, I had a wonderful time walking around and eating amazing food and doing very little else.

Inlet, Gozo

Bridge, Gozo

Sunset, Gozo

Door, Gozo

Bougainvillea, Gozo

Citadel, Gozo

2. My tattoo came out looking pretty damn cool:

Tattoo

Right? My tattoo bug has now been reawakened and I’m plotting all sorts of other things to put on my skin. I’m nearly forty, so I guess this qualifies as a mid-life crisis? Whatever. Bring it on.

3. Remember how I was sleeping so so badly and nothing at all seemed to help and I was exhausted all the time? I even went to the doctor and begged for sleeping pills, but the GP said that she “doesn’t like” prescribing a regular supply of sleeping pills because they can cause dependence (honestly I’d rather be dependent on sleeping pills than be a haggard insomnia zombie, but whatever). She gave me a grand total of FIVE (5) Zopiclone tablets, which didn’t seem to do much of anything anyway, and I was trying to resign myself to the fact that sleeping well was just not something I got to do anymore.

So. When I changed jobs at my company about a year and a half ago, I went from working 10am to 6pm to working 8am to 4pm. I’ve never been the best sleeper, but all this persistent really bad insomnia has been happening in the past year. In a last-ditch Hail Mary attempt to maybe get some fucking rest, I asked my boss about a month ago whether I could switch my hours to 9-5 to see if that extra hour in the morning would make any difference.

And lo…it did, apparently. All of a sudden I’m sleeping…well, not great, but OK. I’ve gone from waking up a minimum of 5-6 times a night back down to 2-3 times. I guess my brain just really really REALLY does not like waking up at 6am. I feel you, brain.

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