Tales from the Sleepless; Or Have You Always Looked Like That?

It appears that I’ve given up sleeping.
And I used to be such a fan.
I take a prescription sleep-aid, of course.  What middle-aged American female doesn’t?  And so I fall asleep.
But I don’t stay there.
Whatever the reason, I am awake.  I am awake and agitated.
For hours.
I roll.  I kick.  I sigh heavily.
Nothing helps. 
And so I begin another day by staring at myself in the bathroom mirror.
“Who,” I mouth at my reflection, “are you supposed to be?”
I stumble through the work week trying to appear alert.  I focus, during meetings, on keeping my eyes open only to suddenly recall a brief fad in junior high of painting eyes on our eyelids. 
My snorts of laughter are met with the concerned frowns of my fellow workers.
I shrug. 
Sleepless Pearl cares not.
And it’s odd, but 2:51 seems to be my new preferred wake-up time. 
A more superstitious, gothic-ly minded woman would affix a reason to this.
Perhaps something wonderful once happened at 2:51 and the house has never forgotten.
Perhaps something wonderful once happened to me at 2:51 and I remember only when I’m unconscious.
Perhaps I was murdered in another life at 2:51.
Oh, no!  What if I was murdered in another life at 2:51?  What if I will die at 2:51?
Worse yet, what if my bed-side clock is off by 10 minutes and I’m actually being prompted somehow about a two-for-one sale that I’m missing out on?
It’s easy to confuse me when I’m tired.