14 April 2003 - 12:03 p.m.

Ugh. Insommnia is so bad. So bad. And I don't understand it one bit. Last night, I would have been glad to sit up late and write, but I kept nodding off at the computer, missing AIMs, typos even more amusing than usual. Have you ever started typing something in Word, and ended up continuing it in Notepad, with no recollection of changing applications?

And yet, when I crawl to bed, I'm wide awake within 30 seconds.

So you can see it's not that I'm just plain not tired. I am tired, you. Tard, even. But for over a week, my body just doesn't seem to want to really rest until 7 or 8 a.m. All of my dreams now end with me doing something exciting, like hanging out in the court of Louis XI, and thinking, "Hmm, I wonder what time it is?"

And I am foiled, because, like an idiot, I wake up and look at the clock! And it is invariably time to get up!

At least I have not lost my ability to get up on time. In fact, I am proud that my body has evolved so efficiently and operates so creatively. It outsmarts me every time!

I'd sort of suspected that my cleverness comes from deep within, and is something I can't, for the life of me, tap. But I suppose it's just as well that it sneaks out without warning. Like a couple of weeks ago, when I tried to write a story about frustration and desperation and self-loathing, and RHW told me it was the funniest thing I'd written this year.

"Actually, I meant it to be sad," I said, but he laughed and shook his head.

"No," he said. "It's not sad. It's hysterically funny."

I guess I could have argued this some more, but I sort of think that everyone should have people in their life who will just tell them the truth about everything they do. So I write crappy tragedy? So what? I'm still getting an A.

What I'm wearing: Long green cowlneck dress with print overlay.

What I'm reading: People having meetings all through Bradley, someone practicing piano in Talmadge.

What I'm doing after this: Heading to the water fountain, then some class reading.