I should be sleeping, not hovering above the keyboard in the Fortress of Solitude wrapped in the buttery butter sheet and listening to Ben Gibbard sing “You Remind Me of Home.” It’s Chuck Klosterman’s fault. I’ve started reading Chuck Klosterman IV: A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas and it got me to thinking how much I loved him back in 2002 and how I’m not quite so sure anymore.
But then I decided that I didn’t really want to explore that right now, but that I should write down a few ideas and wouldn’t it be great if I had a notepad and a pen right in bed with me and I should probably just get up and get the notepad and pen and when I do that I’ll be totally awake.
Plus, even though I haven’t barfed or anything, my stomach still hurts and I should probably be sleeping and not writing about how I’m not gonna write about what I got out of bed for in the first place. Now that I’m out of bed, I kind of don’t want to go back in there. If I didn’t have that Mary Gaitskill reading, I’d totally call in sick to work. But I have some sort of weird Midwestern thing about not calling in sick if I’m not actually sick and if I were to call in sick then I totally couldn’t go see Mary Gaitskill because that’s just wrong and asking for bad karma to rain down on my head.
I don’t think I could hand no sleep, a stomachache and the possibility of bad karma all at once.
Also, if I dream about any sitcom stars tonight, I might never sleep again.
