A cry for help

My boss' phone rang a minute ago when she had someone in her office and before I picked it up for her, I felt the need to yell "I'm on it!" like it was a matter of national security.

I think I drink too much coffee.

You would too though if you had my office's coffee machine. It's from the future! You put in a little pod of grounds and hit a button, and stand back and watch science (? Eh.) in action. I haven’t been so entranced by a piece of equipment since the 6-foot gumball machine at the mall.

Plus, there are like 20 flavor choices. Because I have high standards, I exclusively drink the Colombian Dark Magic Roast, which sounds like the sequel to "How Stella Got Her Groove Back."

Plus, it's just sexy. A big cup of a.m. sexy.

I may not get a "pension plan" or "health care," but that's nothing that my job can't make up to me by letting me drink my body weight in free coffee every day.

Part of the problem is that I don’t sleep. Not a fan of passing out for a third of my time on the planet. To hear my mom tell it, I was some crackhead baby awake at all hours. (Actually, I'm pretty sure that's true. Even then I knew napping was for suckers.)

Yes, I'm aware that just going to sleep after The Daily Show might be the "mature" thing to do in the situation, but long about midnight, I'm ready to do a jigsaw puzzle, do a jig, drink a jigger of gin, play gin rummy, write a letter to Rummy about Iraq, rack up pool balls, swim laps in a pool, pool my money with friends to drive cross country, listen to David Cross do stand up, stand up and pace until I fall asleep. (See what my mind does when it's tired?)

What's a girl got to do to get some Lunesta up in here?