Mission Objective: Keep the Head Up

Sup . . . world?

Went out last evening to join Jasmine and some of her friends in Williamsburg at this dude's apartment, which was interesting.  Everyone sat in a circle and passed around a pipe with (what seemed like) a bottomless bowl, packed full of marijuana.  The girl I was sitting next to, who they all called Quinny Flamms, would proffer the marijuana piece to me after each hit she took and I had to tell her every single time that I didn't smoke, which felt absurd after awhile.

The conversation was erratic, but somewhat enjoyable (given that it was mainly orchestrated by stoned hipsters), drifting from politics to celebrities to the economy to homosexuality to art (this part wasn't very interesting, in fact, the air began to get so stuffy with pretension that I almost gagged) to religion to the end of the world to whatever came after that . . . can't really remember to be honest.  Every now and again I would make a vocal contribution to the subject at hand, but I mostly preoccupied myself with analyzing the dynamics of the group (as opposed to becoming a notable dynamic myself).

Plus, Jasmine was flirting with this guy Rob the entire time, which was a little maddening/put me in a somewhat dejected state.  When I told the group that I probably had to roll back to my crib, all I got from Jasmine was a smile and a quick goodbye (could I have hallucinated that she also rolled her eyes?) before she turned her attention back to Rob (who had just said something incredibly funny, which is what I attribute Jasmine's genuine-looking smile to).

I mean, I'm not a jealous guy, but she called me to come hang out because I never come hang out.  Then when I go hang out, all she does is talk to this other guy, which eradicated the reason I came to hang out in the first place.  So the experience ended up being a little frustrating, which it shouldn't have because it should have been a nice escape from the apartment.

When I got back it was ten o'clock and I decided to stay up and get some work done as compensation for my fruitless jaunt into the social sphere.  Called it quits on the programming around two and put on an episode of Heroes to lull me off into my dreams.

But that didn't work, so I picked up an essay collection my mum lent me and read a piece by Sartre about the necessity of writing, which made me want to post on my blog.  Though now that I'm well into said post, I'm finding this ramble somewhat less necessary than Sartre had me believe.

Trying to think whether I'd call this late at night or early in the morning . . . 3:40 am?  Guess we're much closer to the morning twilight than the evening one, though there's no closure to a sleepless night.  I'd have to call this a weird . . . caliginously liminal juncture . . . characterized by isochronistic movements between lethargy and restlessness.

1-27-2010 hasn't even hit puberty yet and already it's kicking my ass.

Hmm . . .

[Chris drums his fingers as he enters the restless point of the cycle]

Can I refer to myself in the third person without portraying myself as a ninny?

[Chris reaches for his pack of cigarettes]

Can you believe that eighteen years ago I was in the third grade?  I can't.

[Chris lights a cigarette]

Don't worry, I'm authorized to smoke in my apartment.

[Chris takes a couple thoughtful drags on the cigarette]

I'm not usually prone to such orectic whims as smoking in my home.  My general rule is to enjoy tobacco al fresco, out in front of the building.  Tonight's insomnia just seems to entail a special, undeniable profligacy.  Plus, what's more picturesque than a writer with a smouldering cigarette between his lips as his fingers frenetically pound the keyboard?  Not that my fingers are frenetically pounding the keyboard.  The writer bit is a little outta whack as well.

[Chris takes a couple more drags]

. . .

[Chris extinguishes his cigarette]


Well, might as well go enjoy some leisure time before I have to start filling Wednesday's insatiable quota of productivity.


Peace.