Its been over a month since I started working. Its 12:15am on an early Friday morning. I woke up at 7am today, worked for 8 hours, class for 2, Law Revue for 2. I wake up at 7 or 7:30 tommorow; work for 8 hours; Dave McCormack or my weekly Unknown Armies game; sleep or Rocky Horror Picture Show in the city. I wanted to get to bed early tonight, but I seem to require a 'buffer' of 2 hours between getting home from university and sleeping. Logically, this means I should leave at 8, when class ends, but i need to see people, to remind myself that i'm still a student and brag that I work at a certain television station that I will not name. <\p>

Today we dubbed a program called The Big O onto videotape; my department does many dubs and, if i like the program or it looks interesting, i make a copy for myself. I assumed it either the pilot for one of my favorite anime series or another documentary on Roy Orbison, so I asked for a copy. When i found out it was a show on the female orgasm, I was disapointed. This may tell you something of why I don't have a girlfriend; it tells you more about the station for which I work. The docu did not appear censored in any way; the chances of it being about Roy Orbison or giant steampunk mecha in a city that lost its memories were equal.

A silence decends upon me often now; i have not written in months and fear death with a pathological fierceness, refuing to surrender to sleep until my brain is distracted from its non-existence. I do not let my guard down easily ('Sleep, those little slice of death. Oh how I loath it.' Edgar Allen Poe). In the morning, having survived, I wish only to burrow into the covers and explore the winding tracks that take me from Donnie Darko to Watership Down to The Dark Tower and back. Everything in my life and work can be cross-referenced, often in one or two steps. King quotes Eliot; Eliot was a friend of James Joyce; my iPod switches songs and Joyce had a character say Pogue Mahone; I wonder why Shane McGowan would censor the name of his band when an author didn't censor the expression; things rewind and go back.

Today i talked for 30 seconds with a girl in my electronic music class. She did sound for a play I wrote; she enjoyed the music references, the opening joke ('If I wanted to date Elvis Costello I would have fucked an Irishman!'. I bought tickets to his concert; count the echos). We tried to squeeze more into the conversation; she had to do tech for the show I saw; i did not stay and see her; i wanted to see her and realized 8 months ago i was at the afterparty for the play and I did not talk to her, thinking her aloof, preferring to chase after somebody who played me and a friend for fools until 3am. I saw her tonight; she seems nice.

There is a silence that decends upon me before the silence of existential chaos. If i were to talk nothing would come out; if you gave me a subject i would be pedantic (i lectured classmates yesterday about memetic warfare) or brag about my job. I am overtired, as dad says, running in fumes. I can watch, but i cannot speak.

This weekend I will rest, and I will not write.