It's 4:50 AM. I got out of bed about twenty minutes ago after thrashing around with a parched throat for what felt like hours. I was asleep until then; I'd passed out at a relatively reasonable hour of 1:30 when I was beginning to feel tired, knowing I had 8.5 hours of blessed rest before me. What the HELL?
This water tastes fetid over my fuzzy teeth and the blankets are clammy with sweat; my skin feels slimy. Suddenly, I'm no longer tired.
I only wake up in the middle of the night when I need to puke, and I feel fine. My head is spinning a little bit, filled with ideas or misplaced thoughts. Maybe it's cabin fever. After all, I've pretty much been in this room since dinnertime. You see my neighbours appear not to be the neighbourly sort, although that is more than likely due to my overall shyness, and my high school former running crew act strangely toward me - earlier this evening they knocked on my door and fled like impertinent children. They seem to either intentionally not inform me or are just ambivalent about my presence, requiring me to phone them constantly or something in order to figure out their evening plans, which definitely does not lend a sense of being wanted. Lauren's friends, while loads of fun and extremely pleasant, do not live on campus and so sadly I cannot just spend time with them as I would prefer to.
Sigh. The campus residence appears to be full of nothing but college jocks and Kanye West slotted-sunglass wearers awaiting any excuse to get liquored up and re-enact American Pie and every other down-home good ol' boy red blooded USA drunken hussy orgy. I feel like I ought to stride the halls in L.L. Bean shorts wielding an IBM Selectric and muttering to myself like Hunter S. Thompson at the Kentucky Derby. Steadman would have a field day sketching these animals, he would say. Filthy swine the lot of them. I'll strike out with a Dunhill smouldering in my cigarette holder and creep the halls at five in the morning, injecting a stalking pattern of footfalls into dreaming minds and twisting dreams into haunting reverie.
I'm going to try and get back to sleep, twenty minutes later. Will I even remember this tomorrow morning? Wouldn't that be a lark.
