So. I haven't really written an actual journal entry in a while. A very long while. So to all of you who read this, this should be an exciting and cybernetic hallmark moment.

I fell asleep last night at about 8 in the morning and woke up at noon. I was irritated at myself for being unable to get to sleep.

Kind of like how depressives blame themselves for being down for no reason? I was pissed off for being unable to sleep for no reason (although I'm pretty sure I could attribute my desultory insomnia to drug withdrawal. Or maybe anxiety).

Anyway. I went to Barnes & Noble and felt guilty, like I was contradicting myself by buying a Strawberries & Cream frappuccino. I found myself asking this question:

Do I have convictions because I feel like I should, or do they come naturally?

In other words: am I autoindoctrinating myself?

I bought Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, a commentary that is as much a criticism as it is an embrace of pop culture.

I owe it all to Justin.

I started working on the opening to my short-story for my fiction workshop. Here's what I have so far:



Commercial Soup
Day before last I had a bowl of cereal for breakfast comprised of:
1 and ½ cup soy milk
4 and ½ milligrams Xanax
1 tablet Fluoxetine Hydrochloride (Prozac)
I woke up a day later with a horrible headache and a terrible appetite and it got me to thinking on the subject of killers and how they must always be in a state of edacity.
“Think about it,” I tell a friend at lunch in lower Manhattan two days after my benzodiazepine coma. “When you exercise, you get hungry. Murder is a form of exercise. So I’m sure psychopaths are always hungry. And that’s a modus ponens argument, you can’t debate me on this.” She slurps at some soup and after about a minute of silence she says:
“Is it murder that’s a form of exercise—or exercise that’s a form of murder?”


I still felt really guilty about shopping at Barnes & Noble, so I went back earlier today and stole a book.

That's $30.00 that I have not spent.

I like to think of things in terms of other things.

As in:

"Well, I didn't go to class today. But think about the sheer beauty of being able to wake up and say: fuck academia."

I call it Situational Ethics.

Procrastination steals time exponentially.

Either that or it creates an illusion of timelessness.

Procrastination is necessary. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.

I find myself doing things just so that in the future I can honestly say: "Yea. I've done that."

I call it Pre-emptive Storytelling.


TV Advertisements remind me that home is where the television is.

I'm listening to Annie Lenox and imagining her and I walking on a crystal runway as she tells me the secret of glamour.

She whispers: "It's all about luck."
Me: "Are you sure? What about hard work? Diligence? Image?"
Annie: "Eh. Sure. You can work your ass off for something. But glamour and hard work are opposites. Glamour must be somehow accidental, even if it is really just makeuptechnics."

And she wins the argument and I feel depressed because I didn't already know/think of that.

My laptop is a codex. Even after I die, my life (or at least a fragmented version of my life) will still be immortalized somewhere on this hard-drive.


I find comfort in robotics.

I'm going to see a psychiatrist and I am going to try my best not to abrade my personality.

The clock that's ticking in my living room chimes every hour. Clocks are time made tangible.

Anyway.

But back to Annie Lenox and our conversation.

Me: "How do you feel about time, Annie?"
Annie: "Time? Time? Time is hypersensitive. Time is a concept. Understand it and manipulate it how you will. I think everyone understands time so well, we're all subconsciously speeding up time. Speeding up progress."
Me: "That's very insightful of you Annie."
Annie: "Not really. Insight is redundancy a decade in advance."

Tired. My laptop is dying. AKA: my other body.

Time for a recharge.