Friday, April 04, 2008

Sleep is for Losers

I am a caffeinated, sleepless mess of big hair and seven layers of eye makeup that you could probably excavate like an archeological dig to analyze where I've been every night for the past week.

It's not even like it's so warm out today, but when the weather starts to change from winter to spring I tend to hit a patch of ruthless insomnia. It's unbearable because it's the kind of insomnia that can't be sated with some late night tv and maybe the rest of my Easter candy. It's an insomnia that can only be fed by the kind of hormonal, teenage experiences that my brain thinks I should be having every time summer vacation approaches on the horizon. The fact that I haven't had summer vacation in years apparently means nothing. I keep finding myself on Full Red Alert for no reason whatsoever at the crack of dawn.

Because trying to sleep is basically useless (although I did completely pass out on top of my computer on Tuesday night at 10:45, fully dressed to go out, and woke up hours later--still in the middle of the night--to approximately two hundred distressed text messages), I've been going out a lot more than I usually do. There was Free Beer Tuesday, and 1am Diner Trip Thursday, and a particularly gnarly Bushwick Houseparty With a Whole Bottle of Southern Comfort In My Purse Saturday, all of which ended in very little sleep, a very fuzzy morning, and still that very real pit in my stomach that just will not go away.

And this strange urge to listen to uber-90s music. Where did that come from? I listened to L7 and the Blake Babies all day yesterday. What the hell?

I think I've told four people that I'm writing a book, one of whom was a drunk thug who chatted me up on the street while I was waiting for someone to get off the subway. (If anyone has ever doubted my nerditude, let it be said that my answer to "I'm wild, I bet you're wild...whatchu into?" was "I like to write.") It's the kind of thing I don't like to say out loud because I'm only 30 pages in and what if I never finish it?

But on the other hand, 30 pages is more than I wrote for any single assignment in any workshop in college. What if putting it all out on the internet makes me finish it?

The book I'm writing is a young adult novel, because I am thirteen years old. It's about growing up in a boring town (my thinly veiled hometown) and takes place over the course of one night (my thinly veiled favorite kind of movie) and each hour is dedicated to a different story (my thinly veiled life experiences). It's narrated by an inanimate object.

Can someone just pay me to sit in the Tea Lounge like the rest of the assholes I see sitting in the Tea Lounge writing all day? Or all night? Because I'm never sleeping again.

1 Comments:

Anonymous Robin said...

Amen on that last bit. I always look at them, settling in as I'm rushing off to the train, with a mix of hatred and extreme jealousy. If you ever need someone to sit and write across from, gimme a call. I've got another 50 pages I need to churn out. And scary feedback coming next week.

2:45 PM  

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