the tops of my toes, over my laptop
a curled cat, breathing deep a new sleep
my flannel pjs
skinny wrists and gnarled keys
red topped garden gnome
cd boxes of ginger snaps
empty glass through glass frames
windowed reflections
stuffed lion sharks
a folded watch, an unused keyboard
gap bleu jeans
pillows, couches, beds
the other cat behind
a desk a floor, a hidden shelf with wires

I'm sleepy. I don't write here very much. What happened to my pet creative project? Perhaps I'll try and write more later. It's sad my work consumes my notion of creative outlets for creative sake.

The movie "Ishtar" starring Dustin Hoffman et al seems to stick out in my mind as one of the most horribly dis-acclaimed films in the past two decades. Sure, there have been crappy films that people won't remember two minutes past the credits, but the "karma" of how bad this film was lives on in jokes up until today. So that makes me really want to see it. In a way, being deemed the superlative of the worst, makes it worth seeing. It's along similar lines that bad horror films are actually funny. This movie might be enjoyable simply for the groan factor. What exactly made it so bad? Was it boring, was there no plot, was the acting bad. Was the scenery boring, did the actors start smirking and laughing at the script as they read it? All this seems fabulously intriguing to me. But alas, it's not for sale on amazon, or released on DVD. Why not? I bet it'll be hard to even find this to rent, even though it's so famous!

I can no longer justify eating doughnuts for breakfast as doing it for my health
Ping pong is not really the greatest cardiovascular exercise

I'm sure that's been said at least 20 or so times before by others. Honestly, once engaged in the act, I can't seem to tire of the stuff.

But I avoid sleep with important thoughts, dwelling on tasks requiring my attention ... right now. I'm only neglecting my mattress, right? What would the world do without me tweaking another blog link on my website? Tough questions.

Sadly, my personality fails to shine the next day when I dawn a muddy mask of a sleepy zombie.

It's just that during the night, as the wee hours grow up, some how I'm emboldened by, shall we say... charisma? A bit of gung-ho perkiness? A little je ne sais fatigue? I feel I can stay up all night. Or maybe I'm about procrastinating the effort of slipping under my sheets.

Perhaps this is the essence of my college education. Circadean aversion 101.

I'm wedged between two, big blue-screened mammoth monitors. A grey, 1998 business-style, conference-call phone reminds me of corporations past. Headphones, big enough to be considered coffee mugs, and coffin-sized bins are stashed overhead. Stacks of discs, paper, and books are lit up by dangling, shiny, metal-colored office depot lamps. Two plants try to grow by supporting one another, a shiny, dinner-date photo of me and my girlfriend besides many other things easily tucked away in my pockets if I choose so to leave.

What I hear...

my typing, my thinking voice, my neighbor NJ typing, the ceiling ventilation fan, my computer fans, people walking and tapping rhythms on their desks, or maybe replacing their mugs after drags of coffee. A fart, a giggle from the guilty, a word of advice, and a word of receipt. For whom the fart tolls... it's time to leave.