Last night, between midnight and five

My success in sleeping was short lived.

Last night between midnight and 5 AM, I
Finished a game of poker with friends, somewhat drunk.
Went home and played online poker.
Watched a rerun of Battlestar Galactica. Took Tylenol PM
Ate a peanut butter sandwich.
Listened to This American Life.
Masturbated. This took a long time.
Ate ramen.
Lay there for a while.
Listened to Meet the Press.
Finally, slept.

sleeping, pills

In the wake of emotional turmoil, physical pain, and my poor living habits, I've had more than enough insomnia recently. I’ve decided to resort to sleep aids in an attempt to resolve the my sleeplessness. Unwilling to deal with doctors and prescriptions, my winning self-prescribed combination has become alcohol and Tylenol PM. Yesterday, I had a visit from an ex-girlfriend, Carrie, who I once believed I would marry. She hurt me grievously last fall.

The visit was short and painful, involving an exchange of possessions and a few quick words. Her cousin waited outside in in the car, and she handed me a letter, calling it a “peace offering.” Reading the tritisms and platitudes that were all she could muster, reading the “I hope things work out for you,” and the “Someday I would like to salvage our friendship,” brought back all of the inconsiderate injuries she’d inflicted on me.

I went out to dinner with friends. I spent most of it staring at the lighting fixtures. Felix told me he was worried about me. I blushed.

I bought a bottle of champagne, went home, and drank it from a mug while watching an awful British movie. I gulped the drink, tried to interpret the cockney accents, and fumed. I took two Tylenol PM and turned on "Meet the Press" to disctract me. It worked. I woke up thirteen hours later feeling dry-mouthed and lightheaded. I was dizzy with grogginess when I woke up. I know enough about my body’s reaction to alcohol to know that the Tylenol was responsible for most of my lethargy. That stuff should be prescription-only, but I’ not complaining.

. . .

I have spent the last three days, lying on my right side, on the old green sheets of my broken-down bed, watching endless episodes of Battlestar Galactica, drinking expensive vodka, and ordering the occasional bacon, pineapple, jalapeno pizza from Papa Johns. I have become morally, physically, emotionally corrupt.
At times, I wish I were one of the few human survivors in the aftermath of a robot-induced holocaust. I think that might force me to feel invested in something.

begin again

OK, fuck it. This is bullshit. I stayed home today and watched the SciFi channel. I have been doing this all weekend. I can't make it far enough to hope for real love or romance, or good friends. Instead invent frustrating roof parties and post-sex rejection from Albertine.
I watch television. I am lonely. I would prefer the roof time and Albertine's bull shit to another night of this.
Now I’m drunk and medicated. I am going to watch tv until I pass out. I’m going to need to start his shit over.

on the roof, II

I'm on the roof again, and this time drunk with friends, and Gretel has this song, “Chick Habit”, on repeat, she's avoiding the work she has to do and swinging her long limbs around like a go-go dancer, and as the staccato guitar riff bangs out from inside the window, her arms pump and her legs bend her into a half crouch. She is rarely this attractive. While I watch her I laugh a little, and Maggie and Branson cuddle on the other side of our tarred porch, despite her absent boyfriend and his complexes, despite my, “that girl is trouble” (to him) and my “stay away from my roommate” to her. They are cuddling and I am tired, and Gretel is keeping me entertained, but I go inside anyway and say to myself, "that is weird". I take a pill that has not been prescribed to me. It is an anxiety pill. I turn my computer on to a this American life episode from 1998, and listen to other peoples' failures until they are added to mine and are weighing on me. Other peoples' lives. I have too much empathy tonight. My anti-anxiety pill might be fighting valiantly against this rising tide of worry, but not to the right extent. I turn off the radio, and wonder if Maggie will leave tonight.

Chapter Ends

Well, the book may now be closed on Albertine. And that’s fine, as my constant emotional pendulum swings, silences, depressions, and breakdowns were getting a little tiresome. “Just friends” means I can now give it up.
Which leaves me feeling a little empty, to be honest. Not empty in that I feel lovelorn, not like a vessel in need of filling. More like a vacuum. I feel like my emotional state is now subdued, and like I could use something new to care intensely about. Even Steven is fine, but that loses its flavor quickly. I mean, there are baths, and coffee shops, and books, but these feel more like means of pleasantly filling time, and not like passions. And there is my work, but you can only love that so much. While it’s pleasant to feel like I’m not on the verge of tears half the time, I’m also not on the edge of ebullience. Perhaps I should start drinking, or knitting. . .

No, I’m sure something will come along. Some depression-inciting anticipation, the promise of tenuous meaning and lifelong fulfillment will reemerge. It always does.

message

A telephone call was made, with a message, not too pressing, but not overly casual, and now I'm waiting for a response. I feel like those scientists who send signals into space, hoping for some extraterrestrial to signal back. Sometimes, I believe I have about the same chances, too.