Downstairs, they are commencing the reading of Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead. I have declared discretion the better part of whatever and returned to my room, because I fully plan to be in bed within an hour or two at the most.
I could stay up for the play. It would even be fun.
Except my ears haven't fully unplugged, and I'm not a very good lipreader, and I've hit the level of tired where I'm moving around in a comfortable haze of not really here. And you know, I don't need to push myself to sickness before the con even starts--especially since I need to be sharp for the writing symposium instead.
I'm going to bed.
Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?
--Edna St. Vincent Millay