Insom-maniacal

The reason I was looking through my old journals (see the Jodie Foster post) was because I wanted to find evidence of my two weeks of insomnia a few years ago. Here it is:

day one
6pm arrive in boston
toss and turn

day two
7am-noon sleep
10pm-1am sleep
then toss and turn

day three
11am-2pm sleep
awake and productive
9pm-10:30pm sleep
toss and turn

day four
until the present minute! where i am a crazy bat! i am starting to see shit.

Twelve hours of sleep in four days was HOT! HOT! HOT! I felt like a freak and I stayed up all night listening to Iron & Wine hoping that Sam Beam would be my soporific.

Now it is two years later, and I am still insomniac.

As promised, here is my live colonoscopy camera: I am thinking about Kenneth Peasley and Karl Rove's moral compasses, and how the angles of declination for these spots in Tucson and Washington, D.C. seem to be so obtuse. I am thinking about fast-twitch muscles and the empty space adjacent to my office where I spent fifteen agonized minutes today doing roundhouse kicks and push-ups in an effort to shake the cubicle-ache out of my bones. I am thinking about how a photograph of a woman standing on her head,



naked except for opera gloves and chintzy bracelets and thigh-high sheer stockings and red Dorothy heels, might be used to sell Christian Dior sunglasses--is it a poupée-ification



suggesting necrophilic (and therefore unresisting) possibilities? I am thinking about why it takes some people three minutes to respond to my emails and others three weeks, and what that says about me. I am thinking about the size of my biceps, which I always seem to overestimate.



I am also thinking about how goddamn long it takes me to get tired.