Sleepless Nights, Sleeplessier Days
2001-05-22 - 2:12 a.m.
Ante Sanctum: Everything mentioned below happens on the day it was written, and I�ve since forgotten when it was that each entry was written, and thus have totally lost the chronological order that I never really hoped to achieve. Please do not get the impression that all this happened in one day, or jump to the falsity that I have anything more than a typical humdrumish boring life.
If you�re not too farr off the shallow end of the mental illness, there�s a service in Maine called �Project Ride� that will escort you to your rehabilitation classes (or habilitation classes, if you haven�t previously been habilitated). This escort service ensures that everyone goes to rehabilitation on time, and occasionally saves money on gas by van-pooling. In the classes mentioned above, the �attendants� increase their social skills over bottomless cups of coffee and work on crafts that never see the light of day. [That�s all for the background story, so we can delve into my recent experience with this system:] A Project Ride van rolled into my driveway this morning, and Mum was off talking to people at the general store. So she wasn�t around, but the Project Ride Driver (whom I�ll refer to as Helga the Hodiatrist) understandably did not know this, and waited for me (at the window) from the comfort of her van. I�ve tried to reproduce her primitive thought process as best I can, but all the mental slang has been removed, for the benefit of younger audiences. �Is he rolling dice? Doesn�t he see me out here? He must, he just looked right at me�Come on little kid, come out and talk to me�Jesus, they should get this kid into rehabilitation too; it�s just common sense to greet someone when they drive into your dooryard...maybe if I use the horn, he�ll realize that he�s supposed to come out and talk to me...*honkhonk*. Come on, stupid kid, I need to know where your mother is...Damnit. This is the problem with those crazy people, they don�t pay attention to what�s going on around them...*honkhonk*. Probably off in some fantasy land�maybe it�s hereditary...compulsive delusionist, no doubt...*honkhonk*. Oh, finnaly, here he comes...� I was serving a higher power, some might say. I just wanted her to get off her lazy ass and knock on the door; the sunlight might�ve done get some good.
Somewhere, I�ve misplaced my eyebrows (I received a trial Mach3(TM) razor in the mail the other day). Somehow, I�ve forgotten how to sleep (again) and it looks like it�s going to be a long night. Tomorrow, I go back to Houlton. The day after that, I have to find a job and go back to school for three weeks before graduating. Must find a manikin head in my spare time. It�s going to be a long month.
Sidenote: Mankind has historically displayed an expression of anxiety for the future, not unlike the expression that crosses the face of a monkey trapped in a hemorrhoids commercial.
�I fight alone, and win or sink / I need no one to make me free; / I want no Jesus Christ to think / that he could ever die for me.� �Beard (another egotistical intellectual)
Twin studies annoy me. They are the 1-800-psy-chic hotline of modern psychology. A group of �scientists� (for that�s what they call themselves) who claim again and again that there is a whole treasure trove of �twins separated at birth�, that have the same name, or the same type of dog, as if this is some milestone of psychology. Sometimes it�s pointed out that two such twins have the same job, or even *gasp* the same parents! I can see it on Oprah (TM) now: Twin Tuesday: Twins separated at birth that both like alternative music, drive Subaru�s, AND have at one time had a bottle of Pepsi-Cola! The similarities will shock you!
Saw Mitch today. He looked very�like a Mitch, if you�ve ever had the pleasure of meeting one. I love the way that man�s (for he is more man than boy now, marked by a noticeable decrease in arm-flailing activities) mind werks. All �humanahumana� and �boy-audy�ish. Thanks to him, I may be able to reassemble something resembling a werking pooter.
Carrousel shoppe owners: the nicest introverts you�ll ever meet.
I very much miss that look Jen used to give me. That special I-don�t-know-what-you�re-up-to-but-I�m-sure-it�s-going-to-get-us-in-lots-of-trouble-so-you-better-stop-it-now look.
Real writers can be identified by the �ritual markings� they bear on their faces�tragic stories of pens gone badd...they just wouldn�t release the hand the night before, like that magic glue that keeps a drunkard sealed to his mug. It is at this point that writers look at themselves in the mirror, and asks if they are really writers, or just another disposable work of pen-art.
No sleep. Just looking at the walls with my tired lil� beady eyes. Blue walls they are, as if I wanted to fool myself into thinking my room opened up to the sky. But then, the ceiling is white�A marble pantheon, supported by sky bricks, perhaps? There�s a hole in the ceiling...maybe representative of hope. The gods, they trickle in like rainwater, and it is suggested that something must go up to fill their place. Is it your turn to turn into gamma rays, is it your turn to join them in the clouds of in-between-the-electron-and-nucleous space of Bhor�s model? Have I got a deal for you. Ford Motor Company (TM) is giving away a ticket to heaven with every purchase of a 2001 or 2002 vehicle. And if you buy a minivan within this year, you�re children (under 18) are included on the list of The Saved (until they reach their 18th birthday, at which time they become unholy until they purchase their own vehicle). Your very own ticket to the pearly gates, and for a limited time only! Heaven. I went on a journey to find it the other day, bringing along a pitbull with me (because everyone knows that All Dogs Go To Heaven (TM)). Eventually, we came across a little path in a field, and it climbed up and up, into the sky. Upon later observations, it actually went to the crest of a small hill. At the top of the hill seemed to be a �porta� made of trees, which we passed through. There were lots of dandelions in heaven, and it got me thinking about whyever someone would want to go out of their way to kill the poor lil� plants. There was a rock in the centre of heaven, ruling over everything (which made a little sense, because I�m made of teeny-weeny rocks, and you�re made of teeny-weeny rocks, and if we�re made in His image, it follows that He should resemble some sort of rock (maybe concrete)). So I had myself a sit-down in heaven, and soon realized that this particular heaven was already occupied. Black flies swarmed around me (as they frequently do in Maine), and I was not allowed a moment�s piece to enjoy my snack of ants. It seemed as if I had been mystically brought into Black Fly Heaven solely for the pleasure of those blood-sucking angels.
People change. After an undisclosed amount of time, all of your friends will begin to absurdify their grammar by using such werds as �so� and �like� to break up perfectly good sentence structure, and become werried about what brand of clothes they just *have* wear the next day. And you�ll ever be wondering �when did all *this* bullshyt make it�s debut?!? (though maybe not in those exact werds)� and the reason is just this: [at a very base level] People are shyt. And shyt happens. Kinda makes you wanna have a recreational abortion, don�t it?
Tip#10: When in doubt, observer is full of shyt. Break glass and pull trigger.
