Sleep-dep Theatre

There's just something right about staring at a Toys 'R' Us bag filled with new Transformers at work and knowing that you can open them at any time you want. I mean, as a kid, I had to severely pace my toy buying, but I have a job, now, and no one to support but myself. I can go to the toy store (hell, I can go to _all_ the toy stores) and buy every new Transformer that I don't have; that's a kind of freedom that can be revelled in.

There's chocolate graham crackers awaiting consumption, here, and they shall be devoured. Oh, yes, they shall be devoured.

Night shift is neat. I think that my brain is making all kinds of extra chemicals for my mind to steep in. And, now, I add Alice In Chains to the mix.

"Sure, God is all powerful, but does he have lips?" I'd put God Am on repeat and listen to it until the end of the shift, but I don't think that my co-worker would appreciate that.

My fingers are tingling so I should stop this.

There's a very odd mix playing on 91.3, but that's all right, because I expect odd mixes from them, and I don't think that I'm hallucinating. I usually hallucinate sounds and conversations; this makes long car trips w/o sleep very interesting.

I thought that, before I started this, I would have direction or something in mind. That failed miserably, for my brain has gone quite poopy on me. Is 3:33 the half-time of the beast?

Anyway, I may have interested one of my friends from college in LARPing as a creative outlet. He was very interested in the scale of the Camarilla as an organization. He's also lazy enough to fit in.

There's scratchings on the inside of my mind, but I'm not sure how to let them out. Things usually want to come out through my fingers, but this is staying put. Hmm. It's making my head bend toward the desk. Urgh.

Pesto pizza is quite good with tomatoes as the topping.

Sponge's cover of the Speed Racer theme just came on the radio. This song kicks ass supremely. Still no Godzilla 2000 for me.

This sleep-dep thing seems to do something. Something else is happening in my head, and it's very strange. It will surely continue tomorrow. I'll stop now, or someone's head might explode. It might be mine, or it might be someone's who is or is not reading this. Who will know?

So 91.3 (where the music matters) was playing techno from midnight to 5 this morning. This pleased me greatly. My co-worker, however, insisted on telling me repeatedly how it wasn't music, how his 4-year old nephew could make it, and how we'd been listening to the same song since midnight (this was at 2:30). I simply sighed and rolled my eyes. Having made my saving throw, I pointed out that just because he couldn't hear the difference in the mix didn't mean that it was a different song. After the techno show went off, I put in Biohazard. There's some music for you. We're now listening to Murder Ballads. Ah, Mr. Cave, you are my friend and ally. Nick Cave is friend to all children!

Dungeons & Dragons 3rd Edition is neat. Strauss was right.

I almost named my first Cam character "Stagger Lee" instead of "Wade Wilson". Stagger Lee would have probably died long ago, though, since he would've shot more people.

SHERIFF: My god, the Keeper can't be dead!
STAGGER LEE: Just count the holes in his motherfuckin' head! [fails challenge, gains fourth beast trait]

I know many people whose names are rhythmically similar to Mary Bellows. This is funny.

Sleep is for the weak, and I will be weak very soon! This I command! Who shall stop the onslaught?

I have been broken by the antics of another co-worker. His silliness hit me like an ashtray the size of a fucking big brick. How many traits would an ashtray the size of a fucking big brick have? That is all.

Okay, I almost forgot how to spell 'monkey' up there in the subject. I don't normally invoke the wrath of King like that. I'm all twitchy and stuff right now since I got even less sleep than usual today. Did you know that having the entire roof redone on a house creates a noise that resonates throughout the entire house? Makes sleep difficult. All awake and no sleep makes monkey hate clean.

We have a huge, restaurant refrigerator here at work now. It took all my strength to open it. I wonder how the little people will be able to get their food. My head is stuffy.

There are many, many anime music videos out there, and I've been downloading and reviewing them since noon. Damn, my right eyeball is vibrating. It's like the caffeine and the tiredness are fighting a party in my eye, and everyone's invited. One day, my sleep will come. So tired right now. My head is tilted sideways, and my breathing is ragged. I'll never become a super saiyan this way.

Caffeine level 1000!? That's impossible! And it's increasing! AAAAAAAARGH! *scouter explodes*

My pizza was eaten today, but I got pasta with artichoke hearts in it as replacement. I was looking forward to that pizza, though, because it was pesto, and I didn't have to cook it. Oh, well. We can't always get what we want, but, sometimes, you get what you need. Beck is on.

I cannot be stopped, especially not by Autobots! That wasn't supposed to come out. Fingers are starting to stiffen up, and my gut is twitching. This is all kinds of messed up. It's like when I was in high school, and we had to do this stream-of-consciousness thing. What, were they expecting something other than random D&D, cartoon, and comic book stuff to come out of my mind? Peasants. Falling falling. Still not hallucinating, though. Hallucinations are kind of cool. Does it mean that your brain is producing it's own drugs, and that red ant bastard is stealing your food? I don't like when ants bite you, but it's worse when they breathe fire.

YOU'RE FOOD FOR THE COLONY!

Apparently, my body is adjusting to the nocturnal schedule so I haven't been sleep depped in a past few days.

Is it strange that I kind of miss it?

We leaveses now, my precious! We goeses home for sleep away from nasty awakeses and their tricks! My precious sleep, my birthday present!

And do they know you're home?

I need a flying car. That way, when I hear some music on the radio or on CD that puts me in the mood to fly my car, I'd be able to do so. For similar reasons, I need machine lasers, reflex missiles, and the Quake weapon from Wipeout XL. Damn, that would rock. Even if they weren't in my car, any and all of the above powers would be cool if they were integrated into me. I'd be Jameel, destroyer of worlds. Look upon my works, oh, ye mighty, and despair! Just like Ozymandias, the only thing remaining would be ruins, but THOSE WOULD BE MY WORKS! There's no irony when the ruins are what you want people to see in 5000 years!

Or maybe I just need a hug. I dunno.

Okay, it's time for Barbara to come out and play. I have no idea why I wrote that, but kids named Havoc are pretty damned cool. Most women wouldn't stand for stuff like that or making your wedding ring look like Sinestro's power ring (of course it can't look like a Green Lantern ring since they're green). Anyway, I would've gotten away with the entire bag of Runts if it hadn't been for that meddling spacetime between me and my car. Bleah.

Forgot to eat dinner again tonight. Wendy's saved the day again... but at what cost? Wouldn't it suck if you had superpowers but they were suppressed by fast food? How would you know? That mustardy secret sauce could be the key to negating heat vision, and the grade-F meat (now with more POOP) could be negating your super- strength and mega-frottage powers! Go, Timmy, go.

I like Napster. We have a dedicated Napster server here at work. Ben Liebrand's Call Me (Blondie) Mega-mix is playing right now. Cover me with kisses, baby. Cover me with love.

I continue typing even though I should be sleeping or working or something. The soreness is also fairly harrowing. No one understands. No one knows my plan. What is my plan? I don't know. I'm not no one. I'm not even noone. Or Noonian. Hmm. I don't know. Maybe.

Why is it that the dialogue from old cartoons always plays in my head when I'm sleep-deprived or in an otherwise altered state. It's like the soundtrack that's always there is superceded by the words of my youth and my not-so-youth. You'd think that there would be some use to this. I think that the soreness from weightlifting is helping that, along with the conflicting drives. When you want to help people, but the help conflicts directly with itself, it is enough to drive one to apoplexy (if I remember the definition of that cool-looking word correctly. I like words with 'x's in them). You should be able to help people without hindering others. You should be able to help the entire world at once. That would be a good legacy to leave behind, not this pile of decaying crap that stinks up the room, signifying nothing.

Ah, Cars! Gary Nueman can be my hero of the moment. He must drive a Volvo; he feels very safe in it. My brain is either slowing down or changing rates to give my fingers a rest. I wonder if all of this weird sleepitude is doing permanent things to my brain? I mean, stuff like this is fermenting in the old firmament that is my dire brain all the time, but old awaketination keeps is stuffed down in the water so it doesn't flash on the windshield and obstruct my view of the road. It's a little disturbing and weird when it just comes bubbling out barely hindered like this.

Must never post drunk, or, heaven forbid, drunk and sleep-deprived. That would be the source of some seriously demented shit. This is going really slowly now; I think that the floodgates are shrinking like those doors on space stations that iris opened and closed, or the well is temporarily running dry. An artesian well would probably be better except for the fact that they are salty and unfit for human consumption. This shouldn't hurt nearly as much as it does, and I can't retreat back into the 80s or my fear blanket which is so warm. Ah, it is warm. Should I sleep? Am I evil? Devil, does your dog bite? Who is the most attractive to the strange? The normal or the bizarre?

That was odd. Words stopped making sense just there. I can feel the bit of my brain that associates keystrokes with letters and letters with words, but I have to actively force it to go at times. How do I function like this? It's like a reverse hallucination where the false perception is projected out into the world or the collective unconscious (which is an incredible origin for comic book characters [I'm powered by the racial memory of mankind! I am... UberJung!] Okay, maybe not....) Yeah, I think I closed those off correctly.

Lidda rules!

Once again (how many sentences do I start with that phrase?), attempts to get sleep at work have been furtive. The dance mix of Crazy Train is being played on Napster by my delightfully psychotic coworker. He attempted to cut off Candy Girl to do so, though, and we would have none of that. Tonight finds me skirting the borders between lucidity and... nonlucidity, but on the lucid side. I can feel the pull, though, but the pull seems to be toward sleep instead of lucidity or antilucidity. I can force myself lucid, but I'd rather save that for the drive home. Dodging the black dog is no fun unless you're fighting him for the goal of ultimate power. Now it's Purple Haze.

Funny what goes through one's mind at these times. I gave a guy a ride downtown while I was on the way to work, and the fucker had the nerve to ask for 35 cents. No, and get the fuck out of the car before I kill you. Ah, the moodkiller strikes again. You know, if the more pleasant memories would trickle up into my higher consciousnesses like the crap ones do, things would probably be a lot better. Better for me, anyway. And better is mo' better butter.

I'm reminded of Mr. Valentine. When I was very young, I apparently brought home a bum. Well, he turned out to be not a bum but a drunk named Mr. Valentine. His grandson and I did lots of stuff together, though, sadly, I no longer remember his name unless its someone that I'm thinking of right now. Mr. Valentine used to take us places and it was fun. I remember his family being amused by the fact that I had the zodiac memorized.

If only there were some kind of bomb I could send to fry the computers of the spammers who keep on sending me shit. Grr. Monkey hate spam. I feel like I've been typing much more longly (not grammatical but I like it) then I actually have been.

October 17: Hoping for sleep. Candy Girl playing again. The war doesn't go well. Positions being overrun daily. If we don't receive reinforcements soon, the doomsday device must be detonated. The homeworld must not be taken.

I wonder what the year of that was. Stupid work interrupted me just when the typing was getting good. Pager woke me up a bit. Psycho coworker has promised to be good in exchange for sleep-dep theatre log.

Dammit. It's gone. Short one tonight. Sleep bring bliss tomorrow or sleep-dep brings theatre. Don't know.

That was very odd dreaming. The fuselage was twisted and burnt, but it was velvet lined and comfortable. The darkness led to sleep, which is recursive in a dream. Haven't ever dreamed of sleeping. Those would be some weird meta-dreams.

Still dizzy. Have napped, but only for short periods. I'll have to get more than three hours of sleep tomorrow. Nothing else to do, fortunately. Fingers feel it, but I'm not out drinking. Must watch more videos. It is silent here and the new office doesn't have desks large enough to crawl under and sleep. Don't know what will come of that. Breathing is labored somewhat; iron bands of boccob around the chest. Would not drive under these conditions. Outlaw center run. Dark seventeen attack strike. Black fuselage wrecked over whom? Can't believe it, but my hands are shaking. Oh, no, I can feel them. Sleep is just around like when you fall asleep in class and your notes become something else that you can't understand later. Typing takes on a strange cadence like a slow and steady march. How can simple typing become something hypnotic. Fight for proper syntax and capitalization and punctuation. e e cummings and archie would be proud of the neck-aching moments here. Capitalization worth it? Forced a bit up out of this, and my nose itches. Wonder if self- awareness feels like this; eyes burning, muscles stiffening and not remembering how many ns in the word.

Popped back a bit toward conscious thought. Strange how brains can be switched from mouth to fingers for typing not speaking. Words can break the cadence anyway. How is the coworker reacting to the strange and steady keystroke since he is tired, too, and is in school to boot. All-nighters not good.

Snapped out a bit more to say 'bless you' since he sneezed. Automatic writing must be a bit like what just happened. But thinking about it kills it. Typing without thought must be the key. Now the thoughts are crowding down my arms to get to the page. Left hand just went from warm to cold and is doing it repeatedly. Something doesn't feel right. Maybe the hand but maybe something else. Room is secure. Entrance can be heard easily by either one of us. Neck movement produces strangeness on the screen. How much before keystrokes no longer register? I suppose that this is like drugs or somesuch. Just thought about blinking, and I just thought about that. NO CLOSURE FOR YOU
!

Learning unix from Bastard Fred tonight. He plays pool at the same time. I'm not distracted by shiny things; the dongle is matte black. My head is stuffy and I'm typing this on a Netscape window on a unix laptop. There are partitions on this. Fred is going to look at the giant monitor that will be my Fortress of Solitude when the network is finally hooked up. The monitor is huge. Fred is distracted. I may have pushed too much adrenaline into my body listening to unix stuff. Not quite so tired as may be later. Cows are coming home, though, and I'll fight the cows.

You want to fight? Fight me! My lips are not synched, and my eyelids are drooping. I almost said eyebrows, but they don't droop. If they do, something is messed up. Otaku Vengeance is going through my mind, and it's all right. Vegeta is the man, and Trunks rules. Chibi Trunks is cool, too. He's all pissed off and stuff even though he's only a baby. Ah, there's the stuff.

I should do a google search on sleep deprivation and see what funky drugs my brain is making because of this. Pauses are bad and weird. It is also weird typing this with Fred behind me. He is being odd. Freds are like that, I've noticed. My wrist is beginning to ache and my ability to spell is leaving through my third eye. It is not so strange that Morrissey has to sing about it on his next album which will be asexual; lucky. No sex means no running through the snow with no pants on because you got caught with someone's wife or daughter or wife's daughter and had to bail out the window. Someone had to do that. I think that it was Fred's brother. He had to get a ride home.

Vision is fading. Not visio, vision. It is like something that I can fix by focussing but there is loss involved. I should look into fixing my wrist and invoking this state at will. There is great joy and memory in this fugue (two 'u's' there) and there go the words. They should spill out like darkness and a Star Wars Gangsta Rap. You are correct. 2 gigs of anime videos. My god. Now how much would you pay? Upwards of a dollar, I'd guess. Ow now my neck is cricked. Dammit my brain is waking me up. Dammit.

I AM NOW A TRUE SUPER-SAIYAN!.

No you're not, Vegeta. Damn.

I can't type any more of this. Something will come out like the itching in a throat or the pricking in my thumbs that is in a old movie that was in the 80s and I saw when I was a very small boy and very small boys talked to me. I should listen to that cd some more when I am home and bored but not asleep and my knuckles hurt.

Nope. Done with it.

Here comes the Devil Doll on the giant monitor in the new work area. It's black and sleek and I'm not quite there yet. The soulsucking edge between here and herer. Something's shaking. The keyboard is, but it couldn't be shaking the whole setup. Maybe I'm closer than I thought.

I didn't want to look at myself earlier as vitality slipped away. I don't understand. Maybe it was something from last night or some thing that I don't want to face. I'll force the type if I have to but something is in there and it must get out. Had pizza for dinner instead of lifting. Maybe muscles are angry for no exercise. It's vital like the sun that keeps you awake.

What is this that I'm doing? Should be sleeping like coworker but there's no room underneath new desks and not tired strictly speaking just exhausted and there are too many people calling here tonight. New area is a fishbowl and we're on exhibit. Sleep gives ammunition for political assassination and I won't lose this job to stupidity that can be prevented. A bit cold but that's only a hand and an ankle, but that might be pain.

Half hour of sleep actually helps. Eyes are locking onto keyboard. Keys stay still world moves. Not there yet not unconscious yet like a Tapion video quite tired. States changing breathe hard and learn how to spell. So tired now. Slipping down into blurred insincerity. Where is the blinking humor? Where is the sun? What have you done with grandpa? His vodka is cold and there are wolves after it.

More. Done more, see more. Shaking and forcing to type. No distractions and no shiny bits. Huh? The lock again. Type around the coworker's Star Wars alarm. I gave it to him and it's loud. Done with... stupid fucking server! Woke me up. Back in a bit. Back. Dropping back through pie into the zone. Pager up, back down. Easy now. Should be cake. In focus out. Twist up out of gut. Like keys of air safe gun. See of cai or kai whatever. Definitely moving for moments. Man in Akron who must die. First on the brain. Ago a while. Spiralling closer in singularity like ride into the danger zone no editting but backspace and return with capitals.

More senseless violence and fake looking models ride down the neural pathways of space and time with food for thought and stomach tummy and movements of bowel vibratto with a hard key press of fingers that won't work right for you or sigmund the sea monster along ago thing g not t no that's backwards. Moving from home keys is effort like shifting.

More? Walls are there. Mutable language barriers bring babble to speak in your ear if wishes were fishes then beggars would ride the sky. Stopping is strange when you're a stranger and the music stops for a moment and the words just come out unhindered and unimpinged when you backspace over the correct right word nine times that means something. Like hitting the keys real hard so that you mean something like James Brown or Jeni of the morning rainbow. Stay like this for a while when left and right they change and grammar goes wonky optiona. Like the tree of might life. It's all a myth of state. A mythtake like mythmarker.

Slow the time or end a swallow of a cacaphonous spelling right there all quiet weakly keying a message to the peers and gods who do and don't care. What is love of the seventh wave and memory is almost a collage of past events that mush together like a tar ball of a tar god that will crush youuuuuuuuuuuuuu. Oh, like that you swim in it and pieces stick to you and you brush them off but some stick and that is what you say or feel or do or cry and it vibrates and hurts. Vibrages is not a word but it should be used for later when the face itches and the body does. This is regular? State is controlled. Slip down and out at will can wake up or not sleep but not at day.

Breath awakes with no typos and minty freshness. Exfoliate and lotion and file your nails away from the edges. Lanolin foot raise this is going to stop. Now.

Restart, not because of censors but because of requisite levels of pain. We come not to bury Ceasar, but to praise him. Or something. Rollins has spoken to me and the disaffected once again via the wonders of Napster, and my body seems to have resigned itself to its fate. The usual nausea and headaches are here, but I can see clearly now. How much is sleep-dep, and how much is stream-of-consciousness? Is there a difference. If incoherence is the key, then shouldn't the pouring of unfiltered thought through the fingers onto the keyboard and screen be good enough? If there is something there to be tapped, and I think there is, then it shouldn't be more than a simple mindset to accomplish. Sleep deprivation experiments could do the trick or kill me. One of the two. Either is a result.

Again, if by hook or by crook, I can do this at will, there will be greatness for all involved. The freedom of the keys and the fingers will ravage all of them. Darkness will spread and make multiple letters. Their taps into the well of time and the web of rememberance will show the tale of a dark knight and a dead hero who isn't Bill Hicks. My eyes have seen the glory of a sleep, but not a good long one, and money is tight. Helping people demands a longer budget. They're dead; amazing what a song can do to you or for you, even if it involves fictional historic characters. Right arm twitched past the keyboard. Something is fighting me, could be filters. Could be cold. All I know is that I shudder at times and the words come out all slow. Is there something that I don't want to know? I should be flexible enough to handle it all, but the calm demeanor cloaks and hides... what? It's just cold or cold fear that something will come out. What is this thing? A puddle of my own neuroses? Shout it all out. How can this non-fiction be like a sitcom? That's not my life. It's a cartoon signifying nothing. Fire the stupid writers. It comes from beasts and goes to swine not to dig on the swine. Everything, is everything tied to pop culture references like some song on Napster?

No, there's more. I have to decide whether this is worth going through all. The fight between body and mind is automatically lost when they team up to fight the villain in the third act... When Titans Tussle. There's a classic clash on the cover like a Kirby comic in my head. If I had tears left I would cry them for something that I don't remember and dance around like a salmon swimming upstream and jumping that damn dam to get where he's going, but he gets what he needs sometimes.

Does it count when the music makes you see the video? What if the music plays all the time even when no one else can hear it? Why would anyone care about this? Is it ego or is it Memorex? Or is it obliviax as memory moss? Here come the Europeans and their messed up modules. Check out the Fiend Folio sometime. Creeped up critters.

If there will be more of this tonight it will be so; this one is over. I should try again.

Okay, it's very cold now. If I wake up after a mere three hours of sleep again today, I'm knocking myself out with the NyQuil. Fuck this shit. In the ear.

I can, however, type for quite some time. The first time was nothing. I should sleep all day today. Sleep, work, sleep: a pattern of justice. Honor. Code. Ufuh.

Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. Napster player's looping again, and I don't care. Though today I'm not the best judge of anything. That bald dude from Midnight Oil rocks. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I should be unconscious somewhere right this minute. Under a rock, behind a tree, in a bed, who cares. I'm approaching monomania... I think.

Far too much phone talking these past few days. Messing up the groove and making me have to talk to people on the phone. I do that more here than at work. Need something to distract him. Maybe a shiny biscuit or something. Something cold. Yeah, it's too early in the morning.

How much for petrol? Fuck this machine! The struggle continues, brought to you by Rammstein and the Animalympics. Now, to the Onion! Enough of this typing and mailing and feces....

It's very hard to keep up with 5 hours of time through Napster. T1 lets you constantly refresh with new music. So many remixes. So much stomach acid. Something's wrong here, and it's not me using the word something too much. There are stronger words and stronger viruses. Your head will burst with virally goodness with the goodness when she comes round the mountain. I dedicate this to the one I love, but not tired enough. Old school is in the house, yes.

Ah, back in 1991. It seems like it was only 9 years ago, that fateful summer. It is Busta Rhymes in Leaders of the New School. Go, Busta, go! Go, Speed Racer, go! Why sit here like this? Tiring information in excel is just a window away. Stretching work is getting to be my specialty, along with crystal clear ice. Woo, it's ice and fire at Niagara Falls. New York and Canada have merged with New Jersey. Mike King, what have you done? Do you know what you have wrought? Do you? No, no, no.

What's up next? Rumors? Rumors! No, it's Policy of Truth, the Art of Noise remix. Go, go, Godzilla! There goes Tokyo. I had this tape. Violator. That was also in Boston nine years ago. It's jarring like a cement mixer in a violent duel to the death with a laser core on the line. Twelve hours to go til sedation and Brooklyn. Slowdown on the cerebral turnpike. Even in my brain they slow down before the tunnels! See, that's why I don't have forward-mounted missiles on my car. Your flaming wreck will move out of the way! Stupid pez.

Being a hero can be expensive, but the stench of martyrdom is cloying. Cloying like an eyeball that hurts, but not like burning. It's like an ash that the baby spilled on you because he's just that crafty. He hates clean, and they love naked. Cleaning guy just wheeled into the bridge. Thirteen monitors and noplace to go but a pet sematary. One life is good enough for me. Nn. Movement does help the enemy. Strong typing for strong words. Slipstream further into debate of equal topics with similar words. Hey, there's Fred. He works late so you don't have to. More pop culture vibrations; is anything else in there? No use shedding tears over spilled culture or protoculture, but that's an other barrel of monkeys in the morning. Why is the cake out in the rain? Now come the songs and Fred is staring at me I can see his reflection. He sucks. Scenario! Busta rules.

Must get original. Head of cotton, nerves of steel. More later when I'm less coherent. For what.

Well, I'm here on the verge unconsciousness again, and it makes me reflective. It's been a good time for the past few days. Decent workout, near fight, good dancing. The Evil Gay Pants were discovered and thwarted, and bizarre dreams of reaver gangs, post-apocalypses (not like cereal, but like armageddon), and mashed potatoes mean nothing but random weirdness drudged out of my subconscious by too much adrenaline and not enough violence. CMU: where the geeks fight back. I really wish that he had taken a swing at me. I would've destroyed him. Land of Confusion, 12" remix is on right now, and the puppets are dancing in my head. Spitting Image ruled.

My stomach hurts, and I don't know why. Congestion seems to come with the territory of tiredness. Again, unknown why. Coherence should stay with this particular post, but I didn't get much sleep this morning; I've never handled that well, always made sure to get a decent amount of sleep in college. Sleep-deprivation sucks, and it's hot in here. DJ Dr. Spooky! Okay, there's a shout-out. Breathe in, breathe out. Coworker just had a massive sneezing fit.

Excess emotion: can it be shielded against? Sources say yes, but even the most potent shield will suffer damage from an onslaught, and what good is the shield if the creamy middle rots away leaving naught but a blackened shell signifying nothing? Maude, Harold and Maude. Good movie. White lines. Don't do them. Listen to the song, though.

Current headsongs are Five by Ultraspank and Suffocate by Finger 11. Otaku Vengeance has a deathgrip on my head, and both of those videos have badass guardians in them? It's just my job, but it's also what I do. Heat is doing strange things once again. I could definitely use some more sleep. Stupid pager, but my coworker has it this time. Ha, HA!

What's up with that pie? There goes coherence. Dancing on the edge of a razorblade is the way to get cut, but, man, what a dance? Like, almost like pirrouetting between the mines. When will the explosion come? Come to Garou! Hard throbbing head, no the one on top! Sheesh, kids these days... anyway, there's something here to say, but does the old school bring it? Oh, no. No good, start the dance. How much pop culture is in there, anyway? It's last week, and there's a hole in the center; not of last week, but of the memory. I'm sweating in here, and the heat is pulling me down into unconsciousness. There is a comfy couch in an unused office out there. So comfortable.... Only four dots in a terminal ellipsis. That's all, and my arms itch.

So, how about that local sports team? Nothing unusual about that. Nothing unusual about the weather or the Human League, either. You can shiver, or you can scream, but she still pissed me off. Thinking back to yesterday poses a bit of a problem when there is a wall to get around, but it's sealed off at the surface. Pounding brings the forces of nature and a puddle of neuroses is the result. NAPSTER BAD is a funny cartoon.

My earliest memory is a smell (I like to collect sensations, and smell and touch are just as important as vision; they all impart information that is filtered through the brain to the mind via a base-16 function of some sort that I dreamed about back in Penn State); it was the smell of gasoline. We used to live next to a garage, and the mechanics all knew little toddler Jameel, and I would hang out there with them. If we'd stayed there, I would probably know how to completely overhaul a car, which would be useful information. As it is, I know the basics. I remember fire and light and dog-headed men coming to the sofa and taking my sister. I got her back, though. It was my job and it is now.

Still not quite there, though. Apathy is the key. Dance to dance, not to pick anyone up or impress anyone or anything like that. When the action is the end result and the goal, there is purity of form and action, not a tightening of chest. Again goes the coherence. Holding onto the state by a fingernail, and I'm losing it a bit now since someone spoke to me. Ah, looked over at the Napster server and popped up more into consciousness. Funny how the mind works. How most things lead invariably into death and the end. That could be just me, though. This is the only mind I've been in. Babies don't count, and that's empathy anyway. Much simpler.

Wow. Twinge in my calf shocked me all the way awake! More later if it comes.

If there were no one else here right now, I'd be dancing around like an ass monkey. One of those rap songs is on Napster, you know the ones. There's about fifty people in the song, and the video is filmed in an underground bunker. If I had an underground bunker, I'd film a video with monkeys dancing around. That'd be pretty damn sweet. They could write on mirrors with lipstick and bounce around like, well, monkeys. I can feel adrenaline trying and failing to surge through my turgid veins. It tingles, but that doesn't mean that it works.

There's a history of Lucky Charms web page. The original Lucky Charms only had four marshmallow shapes; the blue diamonds were added later.

I just tried to go to sleep but I didn't let me. My body's just going to shut right down despite my brain's best efforts. Hopefully, it won't happen while I'm driving.

Web page is tweaked up a bit. It probably needs an animated monkey, though. Fortunately, I know where to find one.

I must get beefy, for the public demands it. Hey, Sameer.

Anyway, my brain is swimming around something fierce, and my fingers are trying to seize up again. That's a good time to stop, I think. I just have one more thing to say: KILL, KILL! Ahhhhhhhh....

Okay, I lied. I was just asleep, and I had a microdream (you know, one of those dreams where you're asleep for mere seconds but minutes go by in the dream). John Eric was waking people up in a house where I couldn't possibly be because I was at work. Too damned literal. What is it about my brain that makes John Eric want to play in it? Stay in your brain, man!

At least he wasn't a reaver this time.

So maybe Massive Attack wasn't the best musical idea for the night. They're about trancing me out, pushing me down the slippery slope towards the comfy couch of comfiness. I'll have to nap soon; I think that I was falling asleep in the chair again.

These songs are fairly long, too. I'll have to remember that they let me sleep well. Once again, I'm pooping on my own immune system with all this sleep non-getting and stuff like that.

I don't remember what I dreamed. I think that it was that I was sitting in this chair right here nodding off. The crick in my neck tells me that that's not inaccurate.

I need a nap. Bad. I should go and take one right now since I only have to check the checklist every half an hour. Ugh. Hatred abounds. I wonder if I'll lift today. One must set goals after all. Nothing to say beyond the usual today. Fiddled with the web pages some; they're still readable with Lynx, but a few new links have been added. What's this? Gotham in a bind? Boy wonder bound up like summer sausage that plumps when you cook 'em? Maybe if you repeat the magic word it'll come true.

Situation: that which you hate is falling toward death. Do you save it to retain that bit of yourself, or do you let it fall and die like some damned dirty ape? You be the judge. This is reading like a Chick tract now. How now, brown cow? Denigrating is a good best friend to have and to hold while covers play on the machine and cats and dogs play on the beach. Strings of deluded hyper-sentences randomly ply themselves together once again while the whiskey roughness of the throat calls down for another drink.

This is definitely trippy.

It took a moment for my brain to organize coherence to put through the fingers to the keyboard. Just garbled nonsense, not even words, before. My coworker said something to me, AND IT DIDN'T EVEN SNAP ME UP. That was odd. I'm very tired, and I'm not hearing things yet. It could be the time. We've got the beer. Paused.

I had to force myself up here, and now it looks like I'm staying up. Oh, well. I could still grab that nap....

I went driving today after the first place I stopped became too emotionally driven. Now the fire alarms are being tested. Stupid fucking flashing lights. Pain in the eyes and brain to match the set in my gut. I had to sit through over an hour of this magnesium flare going off one crapass Saturday morning/afternoon/evening. So annoying. I must blame it on the rain as external stimuli detach me from the prime course again. How many times does that damned alarm have to go off? And my coworker seems to think that sounds would be better than flashing lights. Those lights fucking hurt! And there's no way to look away from them short of closing your eyes, and that's pretty much counter to the job. Grr. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

I can feel it bubbling up, but there is control. Not to snap at an inopportune moment, but to save it for an opportune moment. Someone will feel this wrath. Someone will hurt as much as I do, and I'll feel like shit afterward so maybe I won't do it. My state shouldn't make others feel like crap whether applied by voice or fist or otherwise no matter how bad the joke and how annoying the stimulus. Like Chewbacca in the second movie where he was in the cell with the sirens and the flashing lights. Hmm... yeah, just like that! I think that people think that I'm lying when I tell them things like lights causing pain and good excellent sense of hearing and smell.

I remember a joke back in 19... 89 now. It was when some Milli Vanilli songs came out, and this song was one of them. The joke isn't important, though. No more lights. Quite nice. Now I can't discern between sleep-deprivation and other things creeping up through the lack of guardedness that this sort of state brings up. If I'd been able to purge my emotions when I was younger like I'd tried, things may have been better even to this day, but the truly alien mindset would've alienated the hell out of everyone.

Had to check the Napster server to make sure the downloads are going properly. Listening to some groups on it has actually prompted me to buy their CDs. I guess that says something.

Ducking emotional intensity is tricky. You get a feel for the room, almost an empathic connection like the Star Trek episode. My mother used to watch Star Trek with me, and she would pretend to be the empath in that one episode when I got hurt. It was funny, and it actually made it hurt less. I should keep writing, but I don't know if I should.

Base betrayal: it had to come to this. All the swirling and bits of crap had to circle around to base betrayal and death. Two strange attractors in the phase plot of my brain. Phase butterfly flaps its wings and a bifuricane springs up in Nepal or something. Stupid stupid butterfly! Burn them with your wings of fire and smash their pressure points. Burn, traitor, burn. Yellow is the color of sunrays.

Would that I could go back in time to the glory of the 80s. I knew where a fucker stood then. Okay, kick the spiralling needle off to something else as the spiralling shape will make you go insane. In the brain. In the membrane. Like Flowers For Algernon or Charly, give the rat the potion to make him some lemonade. Should I be listening to constant, non-stop 80s music mixes? If I listen and believe long and hard enough, can you travel back in time? That kind of time travel story has been done before.

My back has been hurting all day; it happens when I'm stressed. It can get incapacitating when it gets really bad. Ah, there go the defensive screens. Keep it in as well as out. I don't know if I have the energy to blow through them tonight (my own brain is already waking me up to keep me from spilling too much of my own guts), and I've lost the state. I doubt that there'll be much more tonight, and sleep will be fitful.

Thank you.

It wasn't until this late early hour that I decided to be tired (I being my brain and body since conscious thought had little to do with it). The nappy nap I took earlier, which was a two hour nap that started at 6:00 and lasted until 11:30, seems to have taken the edge off of the tireditude. Thanks to Napster and Ben Liebrand, I've been through 9 years in a little under 8 hours. Grandmix systems are GO! When I can't hear the Napster machine, though, like when I'm upstairs checking the temperature of the server room, Ultraspank's 5 is playing in my head. This is probably because Otaku Vengeance made a cool video for it, and I've been playing it pretty much non-stop since my Ultraspank CDs arrived yesterday. It's hostile and rejected and many other adjectives. I'm spared the 'no- one understands me,' though. Thank goodness.

Ergonomics. Who understands? Perhaps my coworkers? Hopefully these pamphlets will educate them. Didn't eat until... 3AM, I think it was, other than a bowl of cereal. Wasn't really hungry, then was really hungry but tiredness beat hungry down into the ground and ground him out like the stub of an old clove cigarette that the goths don't want anymore. It was gone, man, solid gone, and I was twitching. Stupid Wendy's was closed. I should've bombed the place, but I don't have any bombs. So easily this comes to mind now. Hostility and violence, the testosterone way to start the day. At least there wasn't any alcohol involved. Then ice would've been broken. Oh, so much broken ice. The Titanic would have nothing to fear that day...

Still fairly ravaged. Anger barely restrained does that to me; don't know how others would react. Don't much care, either. Here's Kristy, she beat Tim in again. Silly Tim. Back to the lab for the mike to grab; tired is as tired does. Whatever shall you do? Be he live or dead, he will grind my bones to make his bread. But I will not break bread with him, no. Blast doors of the mind are slamming down in my face, but it will not drop. IT WILL NOT DROP. I'm pissed off and confused, bemused and betrayed. First time being cut on the inside in quite some time. Like a game of Risk late in the game, the borders are well defended, but the inner territories have but small garrisons for defense. Easily swept through. Paranoia and trust issues are like that sometimes. Remove the pain by removing everything. Every-fucking-thing must go. Not like a clam or oyster or whatever making a mother-of-pearl package and delivering it to the necklaces of the world. More like a fury sending up a bubble of white- hot magma to scald and tear. Do not let go of the grudges. Will not let go of the grudges.

We are partying in the NOC. The fuckin' NOC! Dance mixes make the DBAs dance. Make me dance, too. Ahhh. This one's over? I'm mentally spent. The fury that spun in my brain all night (Pat was right; no muse more effective than Pain) isn't really abating, but this state of mind is, and it's almost time to go. Adrenaline systems wake me up for the drive home; dodging the stupid takes reflexes of steel.

So, the question I had to ask myself was this: did I want to make another post decrying the late-nightedness of the job, spinning yet another yarn down into the spiral abyss of the night before getting not nearly enough sleep, or would I call in the towel? If even I were unsure of my interest, what good posting? Hell, it's crap, though, and I do have a jyhad to uphold.

Now Bush and Gore talk on the radio, and they both say the same thing like in the Rage video. Why doesn't Pennsylvania have a 'none of the above' vote? Or the guy who wants to legalize prostitution and drugs? See, that guy was cool.

No, Willie Nelson just wasn't working for me this morning. Back to the Ultraspank. At least I'm not looping 5 over and over and over again, great song though it may be. No new Radiskull until this afternoon. Then the server breaks.

I can look at myself in the mirror again. I think. That status varies. I don't feel like anymore of this. Not sure why. Disdain? Paranoia? Everpresent blanket? Too much thought. Can't turn it off yet.

I went down to the au bon pain this morning, for the vending machine had eaten my last dime, and I required bagelly goodness. It was after 6 but before 6:30. The old dude was there, sipping his coffee, and he looked right up at me. The look in his eye was contempt for the young, for the weak. His casual glance said, "You used to fight for this spot, the first one here. Now, you're just sad, like your whole generation."

Dammit! Where's the glory in that? How can I eat my bagel and muffin when the bitter taste of ashes is so strong in my mouth? The pastries are not piping hot, and the shame cools them even further. Sleep deprivation was never this cold before. Cold, wet, and defeated. Play Milli Vanilli for me; it's over.

I don't know if I've said it before, but any video with a giant fetus floating around and getting his groove on in the amniotic fluid is guaranteed to kick ass. I wrote a poem for poetry workshop once with a fetus at the bottom of a pool of blood that the main character drank. It was a puddle by the ocean, and the fetus could talk. It was freaky and started off by a joke by my roommate Pat, who is a silly man with a silly plan in a silly car by a silly bar. Woo. Why do Napster people keep trying to chat with me in other languages? Just because I listen to Ben Liebrand mixes doesn't mean that I speak Dutch. I can respect their views on the hashish, though. Brownies good. Yeah.

So, strong, right. Between moments of delusional lack of sleepitude, bits of 'my god, why won't I sleep!?', and nourishing substances of comatosery, I actually feel pretty good. It's like working this off shift 120 degrees out of phase with the majority of humanity has made me strong! Strong enough to crush puny enemies. I have some enemies, too, but I don't remember the most important one's name. I'll have to get that before I crush him like the little insect that he is, and that's not a good insect. It's a little bitty ditty bag insect. He will pay, though. He's a killer.

Is it a break with reality that the thoughts are like this all the time? I don't know if my speech systems are changing since I'm on the inside listening in. I'm not on the outside like other people. I actually have to pilot this thing. Silly rabbit, Trix are for kids. When I was very young back in the 70s, we got a Trix rabbit barometer in a box of Trix. It was covered with this fuzz that changed color when the climate changed. It was fairly accurate, IIRC, until I fried it by leaving it either out in the sun or under a lamp. Had to see what would happen. These are days, mind you, when my sister killed my Stretch Armstrong with a bar from her crib to stab him. The insides were sweet, and I'm really lucky that they weren't toxic. It was probably corn syrup or something. Anyway, Stretch Armstrong kicked ass, but not as much as the Six-Million Dollar Man. That was a manly action figure. His bionic powers and special running sound kicked G.I. Joe's ass, and his space bubbledome base ruled supreme. Plus, he fought Bigfoot. Anyone who has Bigfoot, Yeti, or Sasquatch in his rogues gallery is pretty cool. Plus, you could pretend to be the Bionic Man by running REALLY, REALLY SLOW. It was so easy! Not like when I would pretend to be Batman by climbing up the side of the house on a clothesline. That was hard on the shoulder. Not to mention the running leaps off of buildings. The Green Machine: also sweet. So sweet ass sweet that they brought it back! Rear steering, so reclined, and it was green, man! Green, the color of... um... green, man! Oh, yeah. My father tricked me one time because I was always leaving it outside (yeah, I accepted rides from strangers, too, but they always ended up actually knowing my family). He took it and hid it in the house, and I was running all around the neighborhood (this is in Akron, Ohio, BTW, for those of you keeping score at home) trying to find it. He eventually produced it, and I've been paranoid ever since. Strange... I never made that connection before. Heightened awareness from childhood enlightenment. Wow.

Anyway, there was this thing I used to do as a child. There was a bridge that I had to walk across to get back and forth from school and the store. This bridge was across a highway, and we would make a pulling gesture and the truckers would blow their horns. It was cool, and cars would do it, too. That's not it, though. There was the railing, naturally, and there was a small concrete platform that stuck out over the highway and held a speed limit sign for the road on the bridge, I think. Anyway, I would climb the railing and dance on the little platform. I have no idea why I did that; I don't even think I knew then why I did it. Hell, I could've been communicating with some spirits or something for all I know. My mother didn't find out about that until I was in college. She would've kicked my ass if she'd known when I was doing it.

Finding seeds and planting them was no good in the 70s. The plant would disappear from the porch as soon as it sprouted and began to show leaves. It was years before I figured out where my plant had gone. That was funny.

It's strange how the senses warp and wrap around each other and themselves at time. Like tasting a memory but not quite. It's almost like seeing the inside of a garage and remembering what happened there. Memories snap into place with neither a whimper nor a bang, but they slide right into your brain as though they had always been there, as though your own mind is letting you deal with it on your own. Sometimes, the timing is really bad, and you have to take a little sit-down and cry-out during your senior year. That was rough, and swimming to the surface isn't always good.

And that's why the images and icons of self-control and iron restraint don't work forever. If the source is inside the wall, then the pressure upon the sphere will increase until there are cracks or there is explosion. You must relieve pressure with a valve or somesuch.

Ozzy and Type O have the Pictures of Matchstick Man. Matchstick Man is cool. His head is on fire, and he's made out of matches. Those are two qualities that are ineffably cool. Okay, if there were some boy band that was made out of matches and had heads on fire, it wouldn't be very cool, but you see my point. All I ever see is them and... you.

No, I don't shovel well. That's the Shoveller. I do other stuff... like beat a mocking biker boy down! Man, I remember when the biker boys used to be part of the disenfranchised. Now they join the mocking majority. Crush them all, I say, and let God sort them out.

One and a half hours to go before zero time, where zero is the state of unconsciousness. I like it. It should give more power. That would be weird if you had superpowers but only when you didn't sleep. The very act of dreaming would drain the vital energies that fuel your superhuman frame. Frame thy vital symmetry! Super-punching: punch through walls! Super-brunching: read those webs! Super-scripting: make those numbers small and high!

Flying would be the thing, though. Keyed to the music in the head all the time. Spin, master, flex. Omega flex like Flex Mentallo, man of Muscle Mystery... HERO OF THE BEACH!

Okay, I'll gamble a stamp and send away for that new workout. What muscles! I'll show that bully now. RARR!

Fuckin' rarr, man. Now I'm done. Next time, won't you sing with me?

Wow, maybe I'm not done. I remember going to the doctor once when I was young and reading 'Little Black Sambo'. I also remember remembering this back in the 80s and realizing that it was a serious anachronism. I probably got the last health instructor in the world who taught from the 'masturbation is bad for you' book of sex-ed. I'm not old, though. Just grew up in a weird, weird changing time. Yeah, that's it. Just have to hit send, and off you go! Off, right off! Okay, now this is just getting ridiculous, but it was really kind of fluffy.

Another night of tiredness, but nothing happened. Listened to CDs instead of napster. Karl Hendricks Trio, Cibo Matto (cute little Japanese women, yay!) and others.

There has to be a career or use for the skill of surfing the barricade between pain and lucidity. Writing graphic novels or children's spellbooks? No whining is the button of the night. There is danger; sleep deprivation can aggravate arthritis. Will find out Monday at appointment. If pain, then cancel for other shift or rotation. Rather like my joints as they are; any worse would suck.

Rabid poster makes mistake? Silly man. When will the god damned poor wise up and just kill everyone in a suit? Karl Hendrick's can sling some lyrics like pancakes at the bottom of a bowl of Lucky Crisp, it's got the crunch with punch. Super Sugar Bear as the freak of the week. Give him the cereal and he's popeye with the spinach. Hey, yeah. Not the Super Squad, though.

Oh, there's pain. Was Wendy's not enough? Does ergonomics not make you care to fling your booty about? Does it? Now you're a man, a man man man. Haaah. Hi. Old thoughts come and go but dementia is forever and a day like an oompa-loompa. Oh, it's special gum, all right. One shall stand, and one shall fall before my might. Oh, no, it's ee cummings man! Now that goes into the whole How To Be a Superhero book that everyone should read. So funny. Sperm ON! It is to laugh. Change music! The Wayno cat was not doing it, but Lassigue Bendthaus will do it. Music that sounds like your CD player is undergoing its last hurrah is cool. Burn, mother fucker, burn! Disco Inferno.

Where to go now? Brain is lost without hope, hope is lost without feeling, and emotion is empty without itself. It's a tautology that wraps around and bites itself in the ass like a half-assed ouroboros. Oroboric.

This CD was not stolen, just in a pile of disorder. Too much of that to go around. Not a good thing. Alcohol vs. allergies in a battle for the central immune system. Ah, happy, happy depressants. They taste sweet, like humble pie. Not like crow, though. That's bad luck. Not murder, though. That's ravens. Stormcrows are different, too.

Lightning can be your friend if you ask it nicely. It will smite you and all your kind. Is this making less me than usual, or is it sense? Or is it memorex? Obliviax? Flail Snail? God damned Flail Snail? It will rasp you away with its sandy tongue. Grind, grind, grind. The millstone grinds your deck down.

My body wants to wake up now. Can't fight your programming. Speaking in the third person about yourself is weird to people. It is amusing though. When will the bionic bodies come in? I could trade this one in for one with wings that work. And joints. Lubed joints for extra satisfaction. Bend a knee. Kick in a door. Hit a face. Extra smooth. Glide like a ninja. Sting like a tree.

Surreal is as surreal does not fall amongst the stars of the play and there goes the fall. Urgh. Too much money spent. Save, save, save, collect and save. Can't sleep now and here come visitors. Not long before Kristy shows up. Will bail then, drive, then sleep. No phone! No awakedness under the light of the phone noise. No bright ringing! No pull from the abyss like last night when I crawled to awake with hands scraped raw from the detritus of subconscious scramblers in the dream. Conversations reassembled themselves. Jerry Cantrell's album is Boggy !

Oh, dear god, I'm awake now. Doug snuck up on me and yelled.

Really funny, though. The stuff that goes into these little missives is still there. I can feel it and hear it just below the surface. To live by the random flow of thought without filters, probably not a good thing. Probably insanity. Still, for a little while, but can you control it? Perhaps not. My fingers still itch to write more but I'm not sure if I want to give them over again. Leaving shortly, and I hate to leave a flow in the middle. One more half hour. Maybe this must end if sleep-dep does bad things beyond immune system poopitude.

Now I'm thinking about Dairy Queen and IQ points. How funny is that? Resistance letting go? I'm really tired and must sleep soon like Radiskull only without fading away and there's no Devildoll on a Harley here. It's not Hades Minor. It's not enough. This is the cool CD.

It would really suck if I were keeping myself awake on purpose so that I would stay like this all the time. My subconscious, I mean. CD!

First night back on the job, and I'm already crashing. Also using first person pronouns. We'll see how long that lasts. Singular, I mean. Something's burning to get all of this out, and the crash was almost square wave in it's suddenness. An infinite spike of negative awakeness per second, and it all goes poopy. Land of Confusion plays from the computer next to mine while we wait for some hardware to be failed over. So tired, and the catnap before did precious little save to delay the inevitable. Please, please, please let me actually get some sleep tonight. Strange; another microdream, this one involving succubi from outer space. One of them was a half-breed and very bitter. She had to fight her father's race... and I think that her father was either Corwin or someone remarkably like him. Probably from reading Planescape earlier tonight. RPGs suffuse my consciousness. Probably help against telepaths, too.

Not sick much anymore, but damn. Hot Wheels cars this time. What I thought might strengthen me seems to have weakened me, made me vulnerable to the lack of sleep. Hands strain to type where, before, they only stretched. Sheer tiredness, tiredosity is what goes for now. The phone woke me up a bit; unix on the phone; hardware problem solved.

So much gaming this month, it will not be funny! Cleveland... what a joke! President of what? His fan club. How they love him... the idol of millions. Or is that 'idle'? Idle idol?

Stupid fucking biological rhythm! Let me be awake and asleep when I want to be, dammit! Urrgh. Mind zipping back to Kaminsky's Challengers of the Unknown series. They were stealing the Olympic torch for some reason. Falling back into the flames? Foolish mortals! Jump right back out with a twist and land behind who let you go. Go for his knees!

Flashing in and out of dream! So much more tired than I thought. Have to concentrate to stay awake. Half-remembered comic books keep playing in my head. Thor after the Infinity Gems: specifically Pip's Space Gem. Have to focus tight now. One more night of this and party-missing action before I can rest this weekend. Game and drink and dance. Will do all three.

Music and alarm. It comes back to this. Draw strength from fatigued body and dump it into the mind to do work. Then the vision begins to blur. There is no fear but fear, no pain but the true pain, no vision but pine. There are fjords and moose and fex.

That last one was about Predator & Prey: Vampire. Such a good story that it'd invaded my mind. Spelling goes before grammar, I think.
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
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Okay, first time I've fallen asleep and actually held a key down in years. Usually, pressure keeps the fingers up. This time, looked up and saw the screen filling with 'a's. Almost did it again just there.

Far too lucid to write Sleep-dep Theatre tonight, but I swear I think I feel my brain slipping again. We'll know for sure if I start running down the street naked singing 80s cartoon theme songs or something. Precious, precious 80s....

Too much sugar too much caffeine.
Too much sugar too much caffeine.
Too much sugar too much caffeine.
Too much sugar too much caffeine.
Too much sugar too much caffeine.
Too much sugar too much caffeine.
Dancing in office chair to Deep Forest played really, really loud.
Too much sugar too much caffeine.
Too much sugar too much caffeine.
Too much sugar too much caffeine.
Too much sugar too much caffeine.
Too much sugar too much caffeine.
Too much sugar too much caffeine.
Big Kat bars or whatever the fuck they're called are stupid. It's like a giant, ultrathick Kit Kat section, but it's really hard to bite through. There's an awful lot of sugar squeezed into that little bar. Well, it's relatively little. Stupid fucking candy bar. Using it as a chaser for orange juice and Vivarin probably wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done, either. Blood is chemical soup now! More Deep Forest really loud! Yeah! Man, this is like driving down the street and blasting Enya or something! Whhhaaaaaaaa! Someone should make a betting pool for what stupid shit I'll do on night shift and when! Wow, my leg hasn't stopped moving. Ooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaa....

This is like eating four or five bowls of the Captain at the Highlander, running around like an assmonkey for half an hour, then crashing real hard on your friend's couch and staying there because you live off campus and he's on campus and you really don't feel like going back to your apartment. Yeah!

Now there is no one but me on AIM. Now that's some good bass. Intergalactic planetary planetary intergalactic!

I can't believe that this stereo goes up to 32! Man, that's fucked up! I also can't believe that I'm getting all hyped up over Deep fucking Forest. DEEP FOREST! On 15!

We've even got our own lava lamp! The final hour cooldown has begun with Natalie Merchant. Despite being thrown into space by Mr. T, who is hella strong, her CDs still exist. Wicky.

Anyway, is melatonin supposed to give you a wicked buzz? It's pretty sweet. Still only getting four hours of sleep, but groovin to the hormone train is kinda rocking.

10,000 Maniacs: peppy beats, fucking morose lyrics Natalie Merchant circa Tigerlilly: mellow beats, fucking morose lyrics Natalie Merchant circa Ophelia: downright somber beats, fucking morose lyrics

She sang about a town getting poisoned by chemicals in their groundwater, and I was tapping my foot to it! Man, that's just not right. She's cute, too, but she's no Melissa Auf Der Maur, red-headed bass goddess of the night. Okay, I don't know if she's of the night, but, man oh man.

Gah, Natalie Merchant dragging me down into the depths! Make it stop! It's interacting strangely with the soundtrack. Alice In Chains was playing over it for a second, and AIC goes together with Natalie Merchant not at all. That alarm again. It hasn't even been ten minutes since I shut if off, and it's going off again! Gnaaaa!

Dragonball Z movies kick ass subtitled. So tired today. Just want to curl up into a ball, compress myself down to the size of a microscopic pinprick, and fall asleep into a microverse. Brain's trying to lock up now, but I have to be able to drive whenever the relief gets here. I also have Mr T on Conan to watch. It's sweet, it's so sweet. I love you, X-Entertainment. You are the wind beneath my wings, even if you did leave the cake out in the rain....

DAMN THAT SONG AND THAT SONG WITH THE ANGEL OF THE MORNING RAINBOW! WHAT KIND OF FUCKED-UP CHILDHOOD SOUNDTRACK IS THAT!?

Stupid fucking lamp doesn't take normal bulbs! It only takes the little bastard bulbs that you only find in the grok-bokking office supply stores. Grrn. But it did come with one, and the lamp only cost five dolla. If I can't find a use for it, I can probably sell it on Ebay or something for more loot. Not enough for the CUBE, though. Hell, I could sell my car and not have enough to buy the CUBE. I would never sell the BattleWagon, though. She is part of my awesome power, crushing lesser cars with but a thought. Squishy, you car go squishy!

No lamp means no artificial solar goodness to replenish my cells, and that means only four hours of sleep. Melatonin does nothing. Mighty vodka does zip. I will not bludgeon myself about the head and neck, either. That would probably result in four hours of sleep and a headache. No good, start the dance. Sigh. I miss sleep; every time I have time off, my body wrestles me back to the default human sleep schedule. Diurnal or die!

Corey Hart and Rick Astley sing songs of 80s vengeance when the post-apocalyptic crack armies roll across the cracked dustbowl. Sunglasses will be required in the nuclear night. No one is innocent. Not even Unicron.

Left the building for a moment there. The soundtrack is being hijacked by Napster, but I control the horizontal, and I control the vertical. Those of you with 3-D televisions will find that I control the z axis as well. It's all for me! All about the Pentiums!

Stupid lamp. I'd kick it and fling it all around in a paroxyism of righteous paranoid fury unleashed, but I work in a glass house, a very expensive and breaky glass house.

Cypress Hill, ah yes. Listened to them for quite some time, yep, yep. Time to get the old meat arms chopped off, yep, yep.

Today may be different. Today may be the day of eight hours of uninduced sleep just because. Stupid brain needs to stay aware, though, in case something happens. Stupid paranoid brain. Let body sleep, dammit! Four hours is no compromise. Euphoria as bits change and die is not a good thing. It would be really fucked up to become addicted to one's own body dying off. I have many new Japanese Transformers at home, though, so there's that. Six-changer with a hand-mode.

There's a chat window on Napster, but I don't feel like talking to them. Not my login, anyway. They should go talk to someone else.

Oh, yeah. Pat ruined the Chess soundtrack for me by playing it all the time. I don't think he can listen to Lies by En Vogue ever again, though, so we should be even. One Night In Bangkok is cool, though. Silly Pat, Trix are for kids!

This music would make excellent fight music. Of course, most music would make excellent fight music. Different types of music require different types of fight, though. Some need wires, some need weapons, some need the manifestation of AWESOME PSYCHIC POWERS! Feel the force of my total rage unleashed! Rather not die all poopy, though. Squish by a car! Squish! Get out of the way!

This is fun, almost. At this time, the concern is a bit of itchy on the inside. Have to wonder if this can turn you into a different person. If change is gradual, and memory is constant, is it the same person? Is it more hobbit trickery like they got the OG (Original Gollum) with? I know what's in your pocket... these nutz, biatch! A righteous crusade may be just what the doctor ordered. What doctor, though?

Suffocate is not on the Finger 11 CD. Poop on them! Snap goes the neck! Bonk bonk on the head! Does it read like a rant or eat like a meal? Fucking ennui. Crushing grey clouds in the grey sky. There is no sun at night even if it always shines on TV. Protective layers of apathy and blankets of fear. Warm. Like a time machine.

Must... use... kobolds! I go now!

Okay, so the day starts out after a long night of monitoring the servers. I decide, "Hey, I need to get some brochures for the ICC '02 (pronounced 'aught two') bid. I might as well get them now, right after work, since I really won't feel like going out and getting them at five." So, after receiving the November and December schedules and finding out that I'm on third shift until the end of the year (Crotch!), I head down to the Pittsburgh Visitors Information center. They're sure to have them. They're also... closed until 9am. Grr. Okay, head over to the Sheraton in Station Square. I walk, I'm healthy. After wrestling the idea that the single brochure she'd sent us in the bid wasn't enough (Board of Directors huddled around a single hotel brochure isn't very professional), I managed to get 12 or so from her. I'd asked for thirty, but, whatever. Next stop, Station Square... where the info desk is closed (Crotch!). After waiting around for a few minutes, nine o'clock hits, and the desk opens. This lady is smart and is happy to give me as many brochures as I want; after all, I'm trying to bring in business. Unfortunately, she doesn't have any of the Pittsburgh brochures. She mentions that the Ducky Tours (amphibious tours!) desk next door has them, but they don't open until 10am. She knows they have them because they're part of the Pittsburgh Convention Planning Council or somesuch. I ask if they have an office downtown. They do, and it's in the old Alcoa Building... which is where I work (Crotch, crotch, crotch!). Beginning to feel the effects of the sleep-dep, which I'm beginning to enjoy far too much, I head back to the Council office, where I'm provided with all the Pittsburgh info I want.

Part one of the mission: achieved. Now, on to part two: oil change. Head out to Grease Monkey, get the oil changed. Rear left tire is low. They suggest that I bring it back later and get it checked in case it's more than a slow leak. I will do so. Go to Wal-Mart for trip food. Go home. Sleep for a few hours. Wake up, watch DBZ, head back out. Tire is down 5psi after as many hours. This is ungood. Sears patches tires. Head to Sears. They clean the rims and replace the valve stems, having found no puncture. All is good.

Part two of mission: accomplished. On to part three: pick up laundry so that I can pack. Get onto the highway and make it as far as Munhall (less than halfway to the laundromat) before I hear a rumbling from the back of the car. Crotch, crotch, crotch! Revise mission status from 'accomplished' to 'crotch'. Pull over, tire is flat as fuck. Compressor. See smoke coming out of the gaping hole. Grr. Fix-a-flat is useless. Fortunately, I have a spare, a jack, and a Haynes guide for my car which tells me how to change a tire. Easy. Head back, tell them to take tire off and put tire in trunk on. Tire in trunk has torn bead or somesuch. Crotch! Buy new tire, it is put on. Call Nick, the Trinity GM, let him know that I'm not dead despite the extreme lateitude. Laundry or Trinity. Laundry or RP... hmmm. Roleplaying wins. Go to game, exclaim, "My life is a crotch!" having transformed into Sleep-Depped Jameel hours before.

My life is a crotch!

So tired. Too tired to read Rokea. Something's not right, and sleep go bye-bye again. Master Ninja does not update fast enough! Whip him until he give me something to read!

Three hours of sleep yesterday. 11 hours the day before, but it was artificial sleep, and it lay slick upon me like new plastic, all slickery and stuff. Like taking a RealDoll out on a date, it just wasn't right. NyQuil when not sick; bad news man. I could not believe that that giant fucking Q betrayed me like that. Fucker. Last time I tried that, I burned through the Q in two hours. It is weak! I have a meeting at 8am; far be it from a manager to come in early, especially when he knows that 8am and after I'm good for nothing but sleeping. Grahafhfg. Shit. It's about the shit that went down while I was at work and sick. Should've called off. I will tell them that... again. I swear, some people don't listen. Some people's mothers are bigger than other girls... mothers.

Perhaps the Smiths wasn't the best choice for music right now. I thought I'd left you behind, my precious brain chemical stew. Each night of sleep-dep, another year shaved off? Who knows? Who could tell? New Radiskull and Devil Doll, woo. Last Preacher book, o yeah. Sugar and carbonation, and lots of it, sucker! I'm coming for you, Barbara, and your little dog, too!

If I were a wishing bell I'd be a well and play with the fishes along the night line of the terminator sea. Nice to those insipid little monkeys! Foo! Foo, I say! Suck it! Stupid ten-sider. Stop rolling up the pain! Crush these bones into powder and remake them into something whole... something... bionic. Oh? The Casbah? You will need the fez. Do you have the teepee? Bubbly stomach.

Nooooooooo! God dammit, they're testing the fire alarms this morning! Time and fire and sound and magnesium light burns into my cortex when they do that!

I must sleep today. The naughty things come out when there no sleep, and they poop where they want. Poop is a funny word again. Why is it a robot word? Why does it phrase it in form of a question noun or otherwise? Seque? Huh? No fire test yet. Waiting is worse than experiencing. Brain makes experiences of exquisite hostility and fiery demise? Demise? Snake's Demise? Where is that word from, and what does it mean in my head? Leave me alone, you Demisical poobastard! Argllh I'll write all night if I have to, you fuckers! Damn.

Will the words start swimming again? Oh, fuck fick fuck fuck fuak fuck. Now it starts. Acute senses hate this shit. Chewie, I feel your pain! Why is it mine?

Two hours until meeting. Morrissey is no match for klaxon cry. Wail, you British bastard, wail!

So tired. Must stay awake. Now is the time when people arrive, and they will betray. Traitorous dogs. Say, Jameel, have you seen this knife? Why, no, I haven't. It's a nice one. Look a quarter! Where? Aie, you have penetrated my back and spleen with your dagger. I would kill you but it's illegal or something. You will suffer the wrath of CATS! What you say!! All your base are belong to us!!

In AD2001 war was beginning. We ate them all. They were good with pastry. How much can this write? Thing of the foo bar? Existentialistismtisic? Kojiro you hav killed my brain with nihilism. You didn't even do it softly. Away with you now. When this starts to freak me out it stops. It goes so long, though? Pressure?

Do not take control of my window away, you stupid windows box! I kick you and install Winux 04! Ha. Running down now. Was this inevitable? Is this the end of Loki? I said you can't have control of the window! I will kick you in the nuts or cpu or drive or something.

Hrm. Now my joints just hurt. Suckity suck suck suck. That's a funny thing to say. Let's take that left turn into insanity. Instant insanity. If this keeps up for too much longer, I'll fall asleep and can't have that, nope nope. Too much pain makes awareness more acure. I know where the body is. Mine.

No, dammit! You go away now!