Of Late Night Evenings and Inability to Sleep.

My beard itches. I watch a zombie movie. The new (ish) Dawn of the Dead. I think about how much I like the old one more. I enjoy the new one. The spin it puts on the genre of Zombie Fiction. I reminiss about "All Flesh Must Be Eaten," a zombie role playing game. I ponder the finer points of surviving the end of the world. I masturbate to free downloaded porn. My Beard still itches. My hands cramp as I type because I have been awake for so long. I can't sleep. I think about Drew. I wish I had taken a cab to her place.

I remember when things terrified me. When I couldn't watch horror films late at night. I would try, but the fear undoubtably would win. It would worm it's way under closed doors, seep through the walls, crawl under blankets and decorative afghans knitted by my desceased grandmother. The fear pervailed. I percerviered.

I started working at a video store. I rented endless hours of horror films. Zombie Movies. Cult Classics. I learned all that I could about genres and films popular to women between the ages of 16 and 35. I watched new releases two days before they hit the selves. It was called research. I would walk the floor, asking everyone questions about movies they liked, if they found everything. I felt like God. I felt like a big fucking joke in a too loose denim shirt. At least they stopped making us wear bow ties.

I think about my job now. How it tortures me to sit at a desk for eight hours. Stare at a goddamn computer screen. Stick stickers that say: If you would like to refuse delivery of the Seattle Times your account will be credited $0.25 daily or $0.75 for the Sunday edition. I put fifteen hundred stickers on key packets in an eight hour shift. I contemplate increasing productivity. I contemplate painting the walls with my brains.

I'm unhappy. I'm listless. I'm tired of MLA. I miss it. I'm unhappy and I don't know why. It's begining to get ugly, in here, alone with myself. The muck and blood are halfway up the windows now. In the back of my head I wonder if there is a rear exit. . . or if I can make one.

I masturbate while myspace loads. I watch Sasha-eighteen-HIGH three times and pop. I feel somewhat ashamed. More so than usual. I wonder where Sasha's parents were, where they are, whether they know she does what she does. I wonder where Sasha is. I wonder what would happen to my life if I joined said industry. I blog. I go smoke a cigarette.

I wince myself to sleep.