2 : 33 A.M.
What time did I expect?

So

I don't even know what I'm doin up so late. I feel like I should be hurrying up and doing everything, but I know that's bogus. I've got a cake to bake, in the less(more?)-than-metaphorical sense, and a desk full of die-cut steel infrastructure. Nothing like electronics to brighten up your idiosyncracies.

anyway. Sometimes I just like sitting around with one of my socks halfway off, thinking about the early years, when I had a bunch of other people influencing my life in hard-to-avoid ways. Or do I mean, I had all these extra people to blame stuff on? Whichever, I remember it fondly. Ah, blame. Now It's just me and the desk, laying it down the hard way. I really do like all these days so far, it's been impenetrable. From what I do gather, everything happens for no reason at all, you can't get to any particular future, though you may want to, and it's pretty good, all this, once you stop wishing you were somewhere else. That's 3 am on sunday. Bitter, like really good chocolate.

I can see how people would fantasize about the body being just another trend, like hot pants. Someday, we'll cast off these cliched chunks o meat and be spirits, or other bodies, or information, or anything except the thing that you're actually being right now. Yeah, reincarnation as a perfectly healthy bunny rabbit. Spiritual transport somewhere else, where you don't worry about ripping off half your thumbnail when it gets caught in a door hinge. Even being kept alive by robots in a gooey pink tank while they feed your brain the 21st century is good, because it means that all the mistakes you're making aren't really happening. Hell, this whole physical being deal might just as well be the 80's!

I don't remember if anyone ever told me to slow down and have some goddamn respect for the body, but I remember starting to do that sometime after that concussion. Still, I don't feed it, don't let it sleep, don't even get enough exercise, really. There's something else about that, right on the pointy anterior part of my cerebellum. I'm waving my hands around to try and dislodge it. (wiff wiff wiff)

and then the pain got so bad I couldn't program anymore and I realized that I was hungry -- Brett

No, no! Wrong memory! Jesus christ, brain. Get it together. Oh, what? Sleep? I suppose you just want to sit on your ass for 8 or 9 hours while time passes, we get older and closer to DEATH at which point this whole remembering anything problem becomes mostly moot. You want that? Oh. Okay fine.