January 10th, 2007


early to bed, late to rise

I've been making a habit of going to bed around 7-8 AM and waking up at 3 PM. This is not good for productivity. Everything on campus that is still open closes at 5, and having one meal a day (plus maybe an extra meal at around 11) is hell on my energy levels. On this sleep schedule it is impossible to get anything done, and I've been working like fuck to get off it.

So yesterday I tried a little experiment. I had lots of toast and peanut butter right before midnight, because high-carbohydrate meals make me woozy. Seemed to work--put me to sleep for about five hours. Managed to stay in bed until seven. Couldn't squeeze out any more--was in that weird place where I was still tired but couldn't sleep. Got up, showered, planned out my day, spent a couple hours on the Internet, listened to some Sufjan Stevens. Was doing fine until 11, when I realized I really needed some sleep. Set alarm for a one hour nap. Slept through alarm. Got up at 4.

Total amount of today spent in bed: 12 hours.

What the fuck is wrong with you, body?
  • Current Mood
    angry angry

damn it

Some of the two-page stories I did last year are not as bad as I thought they were. Workshop had some choice words to say about them, but they were definitely good enough for the standards of a student publication. Why didn't I submit some of those to Enchiridion and Journal of Proper Thought, instead of those unwieldy ten-page monsters?

Today is a day for being disappointed in myself.

No, wait. This is the first time I've read through my old junk and not been disappointed. Some of it might even be publishable if I expanded it to novel length--the stuff I'd buy if I thumbed through it at the bookstore. Fuck you, inner critic. I'm better at writing than I think.

Also, I found this in last year's trash heap. I thought it wasn't finished, but upon reread, it is.

It was three in the morning. My girlfriend was crumpled beside the open fridge.
Light poured from the door, a portal to heaven, drowning her in silhouette.
“Good God, Kat,” I cried, running over. “What happened? Are you all right?”
“We’re out of grape soda,” she wailed.

metal gear solid 2's dead cell in real life

Anyone who has been to post-Katrina New Orleans need not be introduced to Blackwater Security, the corporate mercenary group responsible for controlling unrest through fear and intimidation. (Those of you who have not be rest assured that their quirkily modest website, and the nothing-nice-to-say attitude the major news networks have about them, are deceptive. In any area where they have been deployed, they have a reputation for being brutal, ruthless killers, hired under politically correct pretenses to do very politically incorrect work.)

Well, the Virginian-Pilot did a series of excellent articles on what they're like on the inside. Joanne Kimberlin and Bill Sizemore's reporting is far more balanced than mine would be.

I'm not a big fan of the propaganda game, by any means, but my viewpoint is probably best expressed in images. This is the National Guard:

This is Blackwater Security: