Tempus Fugit

Even though it's easy enough to remember "spring forward, fall back", there is a certain bleary-eyed element of clock shock that hits you at two in the morning when you've forgotten your Daylight Saving Time rules and just say to yourself "man I should really be asleep right now!" all the while totally unsure of if it's "really" an hour earlier or later than what you're seeing on your clock/watch/computer screen.

Tonight is one of those nights. I'd been doing really well on the "getting to sleep" thing, using a combination of rigorous wake up procedures and soothing audio books on my iRiver. DST has made my nights FUBAR.

So, for the first time in well over, what, two weeks(?), I'm back on the pills, just to try to get back to normal, or what passes for normal for me these days.

Alone at night always brings back strong feelings of melancholy. I've been stewing over the situation that got me here more than usual for the last day or two. I've got a secret for you: I don't really know what I'm doing, and my fear is that I never will. I found myself going through some of the things The Slut wrote after I broke up with her, and for a while I savored the deceptively, manipulatively flexible pleas to facilitate finally doing all the grand idealistic things I've been wanting to do (for the last five years in some cases). It creates two contrasting feelings inside me: first and foremost, the overwhelming "what a load of bullshit" retort that I could have and should have used in all of the myriad applicable locations both in writing and in conversation. Secondly, I feel a supposedly genuine sense of loss. I guess I should feel that way. And then I wonder, deep down, further away from public scrutiny than just about anything else I would rather not share with the world, what a reconciliation would be like and what the particular actions are that would be entailed.

Then I just picture what it must have looked like for her to make out with any one of a number of different douchebags over the years and that pretty much puts the kibosh on any further flights of fancy into a diseased kalipolis of my own imagination. Think of that one scene from The Royal Tenenbaums. Yeah.

It doesn't make it any easier to fall asleep, though.