5 AM Blues

Anyone else nocturnal?  I am.

Not all the time, mind you, it tends to cycle back and forth.  Insomnia combined with a vast abundance of “nothing to do” is a powerful thing, or lack thereof, as it were.  At first it made me very distraught, not being able to get practical things done, until I figured out that I really can get practical things done at odd hours, I just hadn’t tried before.  Over a period of months, years perhaps, I adapted, learned how to operate when the rest of the world sleeps.

And then it hit me.

There’s no one to fucking talk to on this planet at 5 AM!  Leastwise no one I’d really want to talk to, all my friends are depressingly “normal” when it comes to sleeping habits.  Habits!  They have habits!  The sheer gall of it astounds me.

You can go walk the streets that would normally pulverize you with noise and be completely undisturbed.  Meditative, even.  Walk for miles without seeing another pedestrian, disturbed only by the occasional whir of a passing car.  Depressing!

There’s a time and place for introspection, and it is rightfully placed during the nighttime hours, but as a general rule you’re not supposed to be up to engage in it this often.  Knowing too much about yourself is just damned unhealthy, I think.  And there’s no one to talk to!

There used to be a time when I’d cram an IRC channel or two into my life as an emotional tampon for my perpetually-menstruating inner-pussy, but as one could imagine it got old rather quickly for those selfish pricks who didn’t want to be ranted at for umpteen odd-hours.  These days, I process most of the menses internally, to take the metaphor way, way too far.

So the 5 AM blues strike me again tonight, no one to talk to but the great question mark in front of my Tubian pulpit, an audience known only by the nameless numbers on the wordpress control panel.

I had 753 of you last month.

Hooray, Tubes!


Conundrumn of a Twenty Year Old and Other Related Musings

I’ve recently realized that I am at the absolute worst possible year in regards to expanding my social horizons, pursuing relationships with women, and the like.

Twenty years old.

There’s no longer the forced-socialization of public school.  The old peer groups have dissolved, most have moved away, and many of the women (and men, but I’m not exactly interested in having lots and lots of sex with them) are psychotic enough to get married.  I’ll get back to that particular  issue later.

The people I’m most likely to connect with, intelligent urbanites who may or may not be attending college, are in short supply.  They’re in especially short supply as far as I’m concerned because my age has another critical limit to it.

Alcohol. Continue reading

This is all ridiculous.

While trying in vain to fall asleep at 7:30 in the morning, I had a thought.

The thought wasn’t a particularly dignified one, nor was it particularly profound on its own merit.

I realized that the vast majority of women I know have probably, at some point in their lives, had their mouths affixed to male genitalia.

Don’t judge me yet.

Anyway, when I mulled that concept over in my mind for a while something odd happened.  I began to panic.  I didn’t really know how to deal with that revelation, that all the people, from the elders who dispensed wisdom and cookies through my youth to the people I went to grammar school with, have probably sucked a cock or two.  It broke my brain.

In my continued effort to figure out how exactly this happened, and why it was causing a minor existential meltdown, I tried to put it out of my mind.  Didn’t work.  The whole notion is just too odd, that these people, many of whom I respect, love, care for, cherish, learn from, have partaken of an activity of that sort was hard to jive with.

Then it hit me.  The duality, between the fully-clothed, professional, intelligent human and the nude, carnal, animalistic human.  Its ridiculous.  Bordering on self-parody.  Only not so much bordering, it is self-parody.

I thought some more.

It doesn’t stop at that, everything is ridiculous.  And we take ourselves so seriously, too.  Here we are, contemplating the meaning of life, unraveling the great mysteries of the universe, and sucking dick.  The single greatest cause to believe in a god or creator isn’t the mysteries of life, or the complexity, because it really isn’t even that complex.  The greatest cause to believe is that life is so inherently ridiculous that surely, something must be playing a joke on us.

The more I thought the more ridiculous it seemed.

Human beings kill each other, go to war, create machines solely for the purpose of killing other humans.  And that’s the advanced part of us doing that!  The animal part, the so-called uncivilized part is the one that keeps the species going!  Sucking dick!

The way the universe works isn’t that complicated, just our explanations for the way the universe works are.  What goes up must come down, gravity.  There are thousands of theories and formulae that vie to explain that “phenomenon”.

My panic turned to calm, as I realized how ridiculous we all are.  For however hard we try to explain away the world, and however hard we try to kill each other, everyone’s still sucking dick, and that will save us all.


So I’m in one of my near-deranged sleepless states wherein I can’t really do anything other than blather on about nonsense.

Oh well.

I’ve been trying to pick up a freelance or goon-work gig in the press recently. It’s been too long since I’ve done the whole “write about real things” deal. Granted, my press experience is still fairly limited, but everyone’s got to start somewhere, right? I’m talented enough, so why not.

The big trouble is getting replies, because I have the awesome luck of being a media writer, which is of course the most perennially swamped fields on the planet. I guess that’s because it’s marginally fun and doesn’t involve as many bullets as say, being a journalist in this chickenhawk wet-dream of a world we live in.

On an unrelated subject, since my batteries of surgery have started, my WoW guild members have described my medicinally-induced late night ramblings about such topics as the Canadian Dollar and euthanasia “more entertaining than the actual game”.

Another quote for the book jacket.