Here I am once again, wide awake in the middle of the night. Bad weekend sleeping habits are partially to blame. But it’s more than that. Sunday nights seem to stir up thoughts and emotions and fantasies and fears and plans and ideas and creativity, like no other night in the week. My head is like a montage of unrelated, disturbing, traumatic, dramatic, and brilliant film clips from all over my life. Sometimes I wish I could record it. Mostly I wish I could turn it off. I fucking hate Sunday nights. Aaaarrrrrgggghhhhhh! It’s like:

“If I won megamillions I wouldn’t ever have to worry about getting up Monday morning ever again. I’d get a new Mercedes 500SL, and a Farrari, and something practical in bad weather, like an Audi A8 or maybe a VW Toureg. Not the big SUVs though. No Navigator. I’d get a my parents and sisters some cars too. And houses. Where would all the houses be? I think I have testicular cancer. Even though I got tested before and they said things were OK, I still feel some bumps. They are definitely cancer. I probably have AIDS too, so I guess the cancer won’t really matter. In the rock, paper, scissors or disease, AIDS trumps all. I should get tested for everything soon. I bet my cholesterol is high. My friend just found out his cholesterol was high, and he is really fit, and eats well, and stuff. Shit. I’m fucked. Man, I’m horny. I would sleep better if I made sure to get laid on Sunday nights. I blogged a lot this weekend. I like writing stuff and finding stuff, and telling people about it. Being a writer would be such a better job than my job now. Man, we are about 7 months late for Jeff’s review. We really got to get that done. He’s gonna quit soon. I bet his wedding will be nice. I guess we need to review him before the wedding for sure. It’s cold in here. I need one of those new fangled air conditioners with a remote control. Like Mitchel. That fucker didn’t call me tonight. Left me here with the Indian family. Ali G is fucking funny. I don’t know how he got Pat Buchanon to say that shit. God he’s brilliant. I should get liposuction. That would be awesome. My cholesterol wouldn’t change though. Penis enlargement surgery would hurt so bad, but it would sooo be worth it. I wonder if I’ll be at home or at work when the dirty bomb goes off in NYC. It’s definitely going to happen. All the experts say so. I wonder if the Republican National Convention will be a debacle. Maybe the terrorists won’t do anything on a significant day. September 11th was just a normal day. Nothing special. Maybe it’ll happen tomorrow. I hope not. Even if it doesn’t, tomorrow is going to suck. I am gonna be so tired. Right now I am wide awake. I should go in now. Finish up at 2pm. Who am I kidding. It doesn’t matter what time I show up. I can’t get out until 8pm at the earliest. I need to quit. Find a different kind of work. God, male models have it made. How dumb is Ryan Seacrest. Douchebag has millions. If I could pick a body to have, it would be Tyler Durden’s from Fight Club. If had three wishes, I think I would wish to win the megamillions, never have me or my family get sick (therefore negating any AIDS or testicular cancer I have now) and have Tyler Durden’s body no matter what I ate. That would be sweet. Oh wait, I forgot about super-powers. Shit. Can I wish for more wishes? Probably not. That’s always a rule. I guess I would have to skip the Tyler Durden thing and pick a super power. Which one… Definitely not talking to fishes or holding my breath for long. I would have to pick between invisibility, flying, teleporting, mind reading/control, and invulnerability. I guess I’d have to go for mind reading/control. Oh wait. That means I could make people give me money. So I wouldn’t need the megamillions. Yes! I can have the Tyler Durden body, mind reading/control, and no sickness for the family. Done. Sweet. I am still not tired. My neck hurts. New dots on my shoulder are definitely skin cancer. AIDS beats that. I need a job where I can draw and write and create all day. I wish I had more talent. I bet Stephen Hawking is really very funny. Most really funny comedians turn out to be really smart and really good actors. Look at Tom Hanks, or Jim Carrie, or now Jamie Fox. I bet Stephen Hawking thinks of comebacks so quick. In his head he is so fucking funny. He just can’t click out the jokes fast enough for them to matter. You are like, “Hey Stephen, your momma’s so fat her belt size is equator!” And he’s like, “Click….click…click…click.” And you walk away. Then like 40 minutes later, that computer text-to-speech voice is like, ” Yo mama so ugly people go as her for Halloween. HaHaHa.” But, like nobody is there to hear it. I am so not high, but some of you might think I am. I am not. But a hotdog in a tortilla sure would be great right now.”

The timestamp is right. It’s almost 5am. Alarm will ring in an hour and a half. Sweet.