Happiness is a full, uninterrupted, don't-move-a-single-muscle night's sleep.
Even it's medically enhanced to be that way.
And even if said drugs render me so unconscious that you could rob my house or detonate some kind of incendiary device next to my head, producing eardrum-splitting noise that still wouldn't wake me up. Or wake me up enough to care.
Even if I drool on myself in an inappropriate manner sorta like that girl in Ferris Bueller's history class. ("Something doo economics... Anyone? Anyone? Voodoo economics.")
Even if I allegedly snore. (Which, P.S., I do not. That's just a nefarious, malicious, lie-filled plot hatched to kill my healthy self esteem by every boy I've ever dated. Ever. Whatever. Boys lie.) (Addendum: The Modern Gal claims I do snore. Even though I find her claim factually dubious, I bet that if it IS true, my snores are nothing short of ADORABLE.)
Even if I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night convinced that there's someone inside the house that's going to attack me, which makes me wake up, swat the air, then roll over instead of fending off a TOTALLY menacing shadow that was really just my dresser.
And even if said medication makes me talk in my sleep. And honest to God, dream that my friends are Amish, but not Amish and more like The Duggars. But with helicopters. And PDAs.
And OMG. Sleep. Have I mentioned I LOVE sleep. Sleep is better than... wait. My mom reads this. I can't say. But you can probably guess. (Hiiii, Mom!)
Crazy sleepy time shenanigans? Whatever. Totally worth it for a good night's sleep. Which is why I must say: I heart you Tylenol PM.
P.S. This Pulitzer-winning screed was written after three hours of sleep last night, a 4:15 a.m. wakeup, a long day at work, an almost migraine, 5 extra-strength Tylenols taking during an 18-hour day, and one night cap Tylenol PM which was downed at 6:45 p.m. Yes. 6:45. Don't judge. You SO wish you were me.