A Copy of a Copy of a Copy

With insomnia, everything becomes a copy of a copy of a copy.

Can't sleep tonight. Just like many nights these days. Instead of laying in the bed staring at the ceiling, I decided to head downstairs and watch Fight Club instead of worrying about my nice neat flaming little shit. I had found freedom. Losing all hope was freedom.

Unfortunately I am unable to lose all hope. To let that which does not matter truly slide. Don't know why. For all intensive purposes there should be no hope. Global destabilization in almost every respect. No one willing or able to do anything about it. All trapped as white collar slaves working jobs we hate to buy shit we don't need. The things you own end up owning you.

When the earthquake woke me up the other morning, at first I thought either a massive explosion went off miles away or that several tanks were rolling down the street. I found myself somewhat disappointed that it turned out to be just a mild seismic event, and that in fact civilization had not ended abruptly at 5:06 a.m. on July 16, 2010 and I wouldn't be spending what would have been my workday engaging armored infantry or starring in a real-life version of Fallout 3.

Maybe I should take a Tylenol PM. After all, there's another day of work to look forward to tomorrow. . . .