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How to Make Christine Happy, One Book At A TIme

    The morning did not look promising. I spent another sleepless night at, perhaps ironically, a sleep study clinic. I was allegedly asleep long enough for my brain waves to convey that information to the technicians who were graphing the bigger-fish-eating-smaller-ones waves of the REM, leg-kicking and forgetting to breathe that is my nightly repose. You might think that after a night like that I would be happy to see daylight, but I was suspended in a groggy apres sleep-clinic funk.  

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