Red Sheets

Last night I slept on red sheets. Sort of slept. My mother told me that Dr. Oz claims white sheets reflect too much light and are little help with insomnia so I asked her to buy me a set of red sheets, which is the better color. Alas, they did not help. I could have used a Xanax. Benadryl finally rescued me after much tossing and turning. And Daulton was a bit bothered by the change in color... he was not sure where to rest his weary self.

Tomorrow night I pick up Thanksgiving dinner for my parents and me. Seafood. None of us are fans of turkey. But I did buy some sliced turkey for Daulton to nom. He is thankful.

I'm still struggling with the depression. And the workload. I hung another picture in my apartment and pondered if anyone other than my mother and I would see it. Doubtful. That bothered me. I realized how much I miss conversation--I want to share thoughts and observations with another guy. I want to tell him how I acquired this knickknack or this painting or what this piece of art means to me. But I never will have that. And when I die, all of the stuff will probably be tossed in the dumpster. So, in the end, it has no meaning?