As I slump wearily over my living room table, clutching my third cup of coffee and feeling distinctly nauseous and fuzzy-headed due to the lack of sleep I am suffering from — I got “just” six-and-a-half-hours last night — I am pondering a particular breed of pest that my life seems to be filled with: the smug sleeper.These are the people who seem to be able to survive — thrive, even — on precious little sleep; the people who don’t seem to find exhaustion an endlessly interesting and relatable conversation topic; people for whom mornings are apparently just as energising and joyful as any other part of the day (see also smug early risers). I resent these people. If they’re not making me feel bad for being so slothful, they’re tempting me into late-night escapades when I know I have to get up early the next day. Unlike them, I am guaranteed to wake up feeling hideous.