A-ooooo-ga. A-oooooooooo- ga
I'm in this fog. It's that pre-eight-am-not-quite-awake sort of fog. The world is a little fuzzy, possibly not all there, but I'm not worried about it. I'll be awake soon enough.

The whistle blows. (I don't have a whistle, but I'm thinking maybe that's what's missing from my existence.) It's time to go home. The fog still hasn't lifted. It's Friday and the fog persists. The cloudless sky, the blue, the upper 70's temperature, none of these things is lifting the fog.

The fog says "Go back to bed." Isn't that what got me to the fog in the first place?

Sound the alarms. Brave a headache. Drink a milkshake. (I am not clear on why this will help, but I have a hunch that I need a milkshake.)

The fog says, "Just a little nap."

Maybe, I think. Maybe just a little nap. That can't hurt, can it? No, surely not, I think. A little sleep never killed anyone.

(Cue the dopey statistician and the suspensful music.)