It starts when I wake up from my REM state. I'm sure I have beautiful dreams. The ones I remember are the ones that disturb me. These usually involve my being in bed with a current lover and them morphing into an ex. This happened recently. I pondered over the potential meaning of it and decided to leave it as just my subconscious inventing paranoia.

I lay in bed for an extra hour, in which I pretend that I'm still asleep. I'm really going over what I should do that day. Should I sit in front of my computer for 16 hours straight or should I go out and have a few drinks? Sometimes a song gets stuck in my head and I spend a good forty-five minutes trying to figure out the title, lyrics, and band. It's a good puzzle to get the brain going. I don't drink coffee, so I have to get my kicks somewhere.

I finally meander out of bed. Should I straighten up my futon or leave it be? Is there the possibility for company later? Would they be offended if I left my couch a wreck? Would they see it as a come-on? What if I don't really like who I bring home and they think I want to make with the sex with them? Yes, I just said "make with the sex." What's that smell? It's been here for a couple of days? Is it the trash? No, I took that out. Maybe it's the sink. I keep meaning to call maintenance to fix the disposal. What good is having a disposal if it doesn't work? Maybe it's not really the sink. It's not a strong smell anyway. Maybe I'm just imagining it.

Breakfast is always fun. When I want cereal, the milk is one day past the expiration date. I won't drink milk that's past the expiration date. I won't drink it if it is the expiration date. Maybe it's the milk that smells funny. Dammit, I wanted Cocoa Pebbles. I suppose I could just eat them dry, but I've grown accustomed to eating soggy cereal. Let it be known that I haven't actually eaten cereal in three months. I resort to my favorite breakfast, SuperPretzels (you know, the large soft pretzels you put in the microwave) and Salsa con queso. Michael called it nacho cheese, but the label says salsa con queso. You'd think he'd have called it by its proper name being half-Puerto Rican. That has nothing to do with anything and I really shouldn't be thinking about him. The bastard. I miss the pretzel bites from Pretzel Time, when I worked at the mall. I wonder if I can get them around here.

Should I watch television or check my email? Survey says: check the email. I haven't actually watched television in about six months. Maybe I'm purging myself of certain poisons. Living sans cereal and sans television hasn't actually been that bad. I like the word "sans." Where did I learn that? "Sans culottes" is something I vaguely remember being in a history book in grade school. I always liked history books. Well, textbooks in general. I liked the questions they'd have after each chapter. I think all books should have that.

Then I zone out for a few minutes. This is where I stare off into space with my breakfast. Sometimes I'll recall tidbits of conversation I had earlier. A quote might amuse me and put me on another thought path. I'll start thinking of toys from the past or a television show. I become nostalgic for television. I have the urge to turn on my TV to find the program I'm thinking of. Oh, wouldn't that be great? To be able to have a cable channel hooked to your brain, where you could immediately watch whatever you were thinking of at the time? Because, come on, even if you've got it on tape, to have to dig around and find it, then cue up the tape... it's too much work. And by the time you drag out the tape, the moment is over.

Random thoughts about spam email. "No, I don't want to add four inches to my penis. If I did, I buy more Legos." Then I find myself explaining the joke to myself as if I were a child. This is just because I imagine someone listening in on my thoughts and they'd say "Huh?" And so I begin on the tangent of what if there are hidden cameras in the wall and a secret computer chip was installed in my brain, monitoring my every movement and thought ans desire. Then I vow never to sleep again and to start changing clothes in the closet (dismissing the thought that there could be microscopic cameras in the closet as well).

Involuntary action occurs. Nature takes its course.

Why won't the Billy Joel concert plan a date for here yet? The bastards. My horoscope tells me that today would be grand for social events. Somehow the alignment of Mars and Uranus with Saturn in retrograde dictates that I should have a dinner party. That would entail getting food, preparing it, decorating, not to mention making friends to invite. Preferably friends that would show up. Oh, many was the time that my parties consisted of two Trekkies, a band geek, and several other outcasts that would have made Anthony Michael Hall (circa Sixteen Candles) look like a stud.

By this time I've turned on some music in order to drown out my thoughts. But still opinions about particular pieces seep through. The volume increases and I allow myself a few more minutes to zone out. My "zoning out" is the equivalent to a test pattern after hours. And I try to decide which test pattern I'd want: the color bars or the Indian head? There's a question you don't find in many question books. Or maybe you do. I've never taken the time to read any of the "Questions/Conversation Starter" books. Which could be the root of why I don't start conversations. I'd hate to risk sounding cliche and if I came up with something original, I might confuse the idiot who wants to buy me a drink so he can see beyond my clothing. And I don't mean beyond my outer shell and deep into my soul. It's all about the nudity. I know it. They know it. Why does anyone pretend any different? How'd I get to be so jaded? Ron used to call me jaded. What the hell happened to Ron? Just lost contact with him one day. I should try to track him down and write a friendly note.

I think I'd choose the color bars. And the *boooooooooooooooooooooooooooooop* sound.

I like filmstrips and test patterns.

Why is it that one word can spark a song in the mind? I always had a problem with that in school. There'd I'd be, sitting in the classroom, reading my little textbook, and I'd run across a phrase or something and there'd I have some odd tune stuck in my head. And it was usually something inappropriate like Why Don't We do it in the Road or Sister Golden Hair. Although, when is Sister Golden Hair ever inappropriate? Yay, America.

There must be far more interesting things to do than record my thoughts. Maybe I should write something of some value. There's always that screenplay... Hey, look! Computer solitaire.