09 November 2002 - 11:36 a.m.

I wish I had more reading to do for class, or some recreational reading that turned me on. Alas, I have neither.

My insommnia has goteen pretty consistent - snooze from midnight or one to five a.m., toss and turn until seven, then get real, restful sleep from about 7:30 to 10 or 10:30, when my schedule permits.

So I am at least getting 8 hours a night, but it's taking 10.5 hours to do so. This makes me wonder whether or not I should just read a book or watch a boring movie from 5-7 every day. No reason not to get things done.

Also, my dreams are so bizarre I'm afraid to try to analyze them. I'm even embarrassed to admit here who is drinking too much in my REM state, whose button-down shirts I attempt to steal, whose closet I hide in only to find it full of drag attire. And that is only the tip of the iceberg, chickadees.

Aitch, if you're reading this, which you aren't, I had a dream that I think must have been too horrific to remember, except at the end, I walked into the front entrance of Bradley, and you were waiting for me at the end of the hall, to rescue me.

But why? Is something rotten in the state of Roanoke? Why can't Roanoke be its own state, to make that a better joke?

Oh, also, Aitch, Spotted Ass Woman's landlady knows you. But we can talk about that another time.

All this to say that I can finally feel some of the ickiness in the air getting to me. Self-concious isolation, lacks of goodbyes and hellos, and feigned distraction are little things, but they can add up.

So if I have failed to properly acknowledge any proverbial knives that have been stuck in any hearts, here is my official, public apology. The weather isn't the only thing getting cooler 'round these parts.

Am I writing exclusively to Ms. Virginia right now? I hope not, but it may be so. She's in my dreams, too, sobbing, finally letting it all out, drenched in white wine in a cafe in Squirrel Hill.

You go, girl. I wish someone would dream of me somewhere north of Murray. Then again, I don't know if it would do any good. I may not be dreaming, just stuck in various parts of my own personal Fellini film every night.

I'm pretty sure the entry I wrote yesterday was funny. This entry has turned out to be oddly maudlin. Hopefully, if I'm boring anybody, they'll at least appreciate the Hawkeye Pierce-esque inconsistency in my ramblings.

Oh, also, I'm totally naming my kid "Oddly Maudlin."

What I'm wearing:

What I'm reading:

What I'm doing after this: