My Night’s Sleep

Yes, I’ve been away from my blag here for a while, I’ll talk about that some later, but right now I want to talk about how I slept last night.

Seems dull, no?  Well strap the fuck in, because we’re going for a ride.

So I was lounging around with my father last night, getting ready for bed when my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, so it goes to voicemail. Thanks to Google voice, while I wouldn’t have checked my voicemail before sleep I certainly checked my email, and something didn’t square. The sleep study I had scheduled, to try and pin down whatever gross mutation I am saddled with, for the SIXTH of January 2011 has apparently been spontaneously rescheduled for the FIFTH of January 2011 and I am LATE FOR MY STUDY. So, roundabouts ten o’clock (study was scheduled to begin at nine) I take the world’s fastest shower, pack sleeping clothes (note: I am a man, and do not usually use sleeping clothes, this was not easy), get in the car with my father, and travel to the hospital.

For those who’ve visited or lived here, you will know I live next door to the hospital. These fucking people scheduled it, however, at the affiliated hospital fifteen miles away, with heavy road construction between me and it. I have thirty minutes, so naturally, this was all very relaxing and just the sort of activity you want to partake of right before attempting a restful night’s sleep. When I arrived and got past the prick at emergency reception (you would think they would staff the pricks in a place where they won’t talk to people in need of genuine aid), I was escorted by a very nice fellow who asked me why I looked so wired and if I had been drinking caffeine (which was VERBOTEN).


Now I arrive in the room, the room where I am to “sleep” for the “night”. It looks like the room was decorated by a doctor from Victorian London and Lex Luthor’s most diabolical laboratory at the same time. The furniture is alternately horrifying in its unfeeling medical coldness with its probulators and tubey things, and handmade wooden furniture with ornate styling. There is a giant LCD screen that looks as if it is meant to broadcast instructions from Dr. Evil while I sleep to reprogram me into a heartless killing machine, and who knows, maybe it did, we’ll all find out now, won’t we. Directly underneath it there was a lovely little desk upon which sat forms for me to fill out.


I fill out the forms, giving the hospital consent to brainwash me and kill me and videotape me doing ridiculous shit wait what?! Videotape? I look above Dr. Evil’s global ransom screen and see an infrared camera that is FOLLOWING ME. This camera, henceforth referred to as the Eye of Sauron/Red Ring of Death for its blinding red LEDs surrounding it, has fixed its gaze on me. “I SEE YOU” I pretend to hear. Oh well, fuck it, this whole affair is deranged anyway, I’ll sign all the consent forms including one for electrical shocks which I really wish I hadn’t just skimmed over before signing.

Right, now time to sleep. I figure they’ll put a nice sleeping cap on that contains all the sensors and brain probes required, plug it into the vaguely dildonic looking machine next to the bed and we’ll be off. Then I see the attendant preparing them.

Electrodes. Old school. Glue to your skull type things. I’ve had an EEG before so I figure, oh well, I’ll just have to wash the spunk-like glue out of my hair tomorrow morning. Turns out there were a few more things to plug in than there were last time. I counted 12 electrodes in my hair on top of my head, six around my eyes, one on my throat, two on my chest, four on each leg and two on my right arm, plus two straps across my torso.

Me, 10% of the way through the procedure

Me, 10% of the way through the procedure

Oh, and four electrodes in my beard.








Well this night was clearly going to be restful. I got into the bed, which was surprisingly comfortable, and was given the nostril-fucker device which completed my ridiculous cyberpunk bondage outfit. The Eye of Sauron looked at me with what I swear was fucking pity, and after some tests to make sure all the gizmos and probes and prehensile robotic copulators were functioning fully, the lights went out.

Now, if you want to play the home version of this game, its simple. Take all the cables from your router, computer, etc, and plug them into your goddamn face. Then put the router and the computer next to your pillow, and lie still enough that the machines will not be displeased. It is essentially what getting skullfucked by our future robot overlords would be like, post-skullfucking when Ribonulator 800 wants to cuddle and suck power from your neurons. And your hair and beard are full of a rich, nutritive glue that is a translucent whitish color, and difficult to wash out. Now RELAX AND HAVE A GOOD NIGHT!

Miraculously I managed to sleep. My sleep was consistently interrupted whenever I accidentally tugged one of the cables and displeased the Ribonulator and had to roll back over. Eventually the stress of the unblinking gaze of the Dark Lord Sauron and the probes damaged my calm and I hit the “GET IN HERE, ASSHOLE” button next to the bed (note that the device all the electrodes are plugged into is on the bed with you, while the button you have to push in case of distress is on the fucking nightstand) to demand my valium from my bag. I would have gotten up and taken it myself, but not only was I plugged into the Matrix, here, the blanket was a special weighted blanket that made it near impossible to sit up without the attendant removing it for you. I eventually fell asleep again. Then, I discovered that in lieu of an alarm clock they fucking shock your torso to wake you up when you’re “done”. This was 5:30 AM.

Now, the long, arduous process of disconnecting me from the mechano-tentacles of the Borg began, and I got up to wash my face and then fill out the “customer satisfaction” survey. If you’re wondering, yes, I did use phrases like “Eye of Sauron”, “facefucked by androids” and so on in this survey.

Then I saw myself in the mirror.

Bleak, bleary-eyed and miserable, hair all fucked up as per usual. Rub my eyes a couple times. Holy shit. It looks like I’ve been bukkake’d by Optimus Prime and all his friends. I wash as much of the vile glue out as I can before hastily calling for rescue.

Now tell me you're a naughty girl...

It is 7:39 now, and after showering and washing my face twice, I still do not have all of that goddamn glue out of my beard.

Sleep tight, everyone!


The Hurricane in my Head

And on the seventh day, Andrew did look down upon his computers, and said that they were “good enough.”

Today is my day of rest.  I find myself not resting, though, so much as brooding.  Brooding is a common activity of late.  The fates long ago decreed that everything shitty that ever happens to me must happen to me between the months of October and March, with the rest of the year serving as reprieve from the torrential downpour of extreme humanity that characterizes this time.

Think about it, the happiest day for most people in this time period involves one of three things, and in some cases all of them combined.  One, eating massive amounts of unhealthy food.  Two, drinking massive amounts of wines and various hard liquors.  Three, commemoration of the birth of a man who was ultimately beaten, whipped, stabbed, and crucified because he thought everyone should live in peace and harmony with each other.

Fun times.

For me, the misery started at the tender age of seven, my parents having decided to announce to me their intentions of divorce on New Year’s Day, as I woke up.  Now, myself having been dumped unceremoniously for a woman before I feel a certain degree of retroactive sympathy for my father.  Still, had I been custodian of a podling at the time of my interpersonal detonation, I’d have waited to deliver the news.

I’ve had family members die, been hospitalized, and even arrested (twice!) during this time period.  Nothing too bad has happened this time out.

So now I’m some form of quantum cliche, with infinite layers of suck folding over each other into nothingness.  The hermit, the manchild, the tortured artist, the hopeless romantic, these are my faces, all of them trite and none of them true.

I sit at the keyboard, the hurricane in my head reels with ideas and emotions, a category five of intellect.  Powerful, but raw, uncontrollable, and destructive.  To take the metaphor to its extreme, Katrina’s about to break the levee holding back Lake Sanity.

“I gotta get out of this place.”

“I gotta go do something”

“I gotta find a woman”

Right now, I just gotta survive.

The sane may never live, but the crazy never die.

I’ve been thinking a lot about a recent, and rather unfortunate trend. More and more, the disturbed and alienated youth of my generation are deciding that its better to die spectacularly than live insignificantly. From extravagant overdoses to the shitheads who go nuts with a gun, more and more of my generation is being lost to this pox. And they’re being rewarded for it.

In life, the Virginia Tech shooter (he’s already gotten too much attention, I won’t bring his name up) was largely ignored. Even his parents favored his sister over him. In his gruesome act he became immortal, as the media gave him all he ever wanted, presumably in exchange for the ratings-bait of the v-tech coverage.

Many may remember the tale of Ripper, who achieved notoriety after overdosing on his “grip of drugs” live, on the internet, his death broadcast via webcam to his moron compatriots in an IRC channel.

“i told u i was hardcore,” he said just before death.

Even I myself feel the cold, vile logic behind it. I’m a talented enough individual to achieve fame or infamy without violence, but for some reason that makes it even harder to resist the school of thought that says it is better to burn twice as bright for half as long.

I look at talented people with similarly underwhelming roots. Kevin Smith, writer and director of several movies financed his breakout film entirely on credit cards, for under $30,000. Richard Kelly, writer and director of Donnie Darko, and fellow Virginia native achieved success out of nowhere with the most ahead-of-its-time film since Blade Runner. Most recently, Diablo Cody rides a righteous pole to fame and fortune, her biting wit having been observed first on her blog.

I’m older than many of the new successes in film and comedy already. I’ve been mostly unemployed since graduating high school, and I’m headed for life-on-disability. Were I a weaker man I probably wouldn’t be around to write this right now.

That fact alone, is terrifying.

Existential Burnout

I’m mad at the world.

Ever since the film-school debacle, and then the subsequent community-college experience which has been, suffice it to say, remedial, I’ve been increasingly jaded and cynical about everything.

Considering I’m one of the most jaded and cynical motherfuckers in my area code by default, that’s saying something.

Consider that my area code contains thousands of federal government workers and contractors and you will soon realize that this isn’t very good at all.

I’ve played Halo 3 to death and back, and Warcraft is just a sort of numbing, mindless entertainment. My whole job in that game revolves around pressing two buttons and not dying. It doesn’t matter which job I’m doing, they’re all “Two buttons, don’t die.” Paladin is simple like that.

I’m creatively starved, I need to start writing again. The problem is, that I’m a writer who can’t write for its own sake. I have to have reinforcement and feedback, even if it is “Your writing is atrocious and your character development is stillborn. Whoever gave you a keyboard should be lynched.”

I’m funny that way.


You would think, that in this magical fairytale world we live in, that some schmuck would invent a tire that is immune to puncture.

Hell, James Bond had that “push a button on your cell phone and make the tires fixed” thing. I want that. More so, I want an invincible tire. I want something that would require explosives to dent it. I want a tire that will eat children if need be.

My dad and I were getting some stuff done today, and the tire blew. Right now I just feel like there’s a big ulcerative lesion where my sanity should be.

…Remember, Andrew, go to your cave.

Ahh... much better