Why can't I go to sleep? Well, for one thing, I won't get away from the dang compooter. It's becoming like watching infomercials for me: there's nothing on, but yet I can't stop flipping. And it's not exactly like I'm the most far-fetched surfer. In fact, I only visit a couple of pages altogether--most of them blogs and more often than not, they're my own. So what keeps me glued here? Well, you never know when something might happen. I can't run the risk of missing that! Or, what if I come up with a good idea that I want to put on my blog right away? I can't easily do that while I'm in bed sleeping, can I? Of course, if I'm in bed sleeping, then I don't think too many ideas will come up consciously enough for me to want to put them here. But then what if I pull a Seinfeld (you know, that time when he semi-consciously scribbled down what he thought was the funniest joke ever in the middle of the night, and then he woke up the next morning and couldn't even read his own writing)? Then I might be in trouble. See, it's reasons like that that keep me glued here at night!

Chong said that this was when artists were at their peak time of creativity. The nocturnal ones, that is (well, duh). Is that true? Any nocturnal artists want to share their thoughts? Feel free; it'll give me something to read at this hour without having to leave the comfort of this office chair that just doesn't lean back enough to be comfortable. I think I've had too many cups of coffee and not enough sleep in the past 72 hours. But what could I do? I had to study, didn't I? Thank goodness that's done with, despite the fact that I finally decided to drop out of my elective (sorry Jean, no more [w]-ing or [j]-ing during study-time). Now all that's left is for me to read five different texts by Monday and write an original piece of fiction. Goodness knows how I hate to write about stuff. :p Actually, I think I just might post something I wrote a while ago for you to read a little later tonight since I'll probably be up anyway. Is it even "tonight" anymore? What am I waiting for?

I think that since I'm up at all hours anyway, I should host my own wake-up call service for my friends. It seemed to work the other night for Senorita. I was studying and she needed a nap, so I called her at 3am to make sure that she woke up and got right back to it. Alright, so any one requiring a wake-up call between 12am - 8am at anytime, just email me and let me know--take advantage of this limited time FREE offer! :p Man, this is bad. I know for a fact that some of you are going to be getting up soon--poor Squiggly's already in the shower by now--I really should just call you to wake you up with my "I-haven't-slept-a-wink" voice...it can get pretty sexy sometimes. *sigh* *yawn* Ooooh...that's a good sign. I think I'll start to peel my eyes off the screen now...night-night.
...

Pillowtalk

She watched her clock turn from 3:59 to 4:00 in the morning. She still wasn’t tired yet—her last exam was really stressing her. She was glad he had offered to keep her company on the phone while she crammed for the final tomorrow, but it had been a while since he’d last said anything.
“Hey you, are you still awake?”
“Mmmm…” came the muffled reply. He heaved a long sigh of sleepiness a moment later. She smiled at it. They had only known each other for a few months, but had quickly become close friends. She didn’t mind that he had fallen asleep; his soft breathing comforted her and depleted the loneliness of her room while she studied. A little while later, she finished up her reviewing, turned off the light and crawled into bed.
“Hey, I’m done,” she said softly. She heard him grunt an unintelligible reply. “You can go now, I’m done.”
“But I don’t want to ride the train…”
He was babbling. She giggled softly; he’d done it before with humorous results. He never meant to and he never remembered doing so either.
“Where are you going on the train?”
“…Vermont…”
“What are you going to do there?”
“…Ski…snowboard…pick up chicks…”
“Oh really?”
“…mmm-hmm…”
There were long pauses between her questions and his replies, but she didn’t mind. It was an amusing relief from her present stress.
“Who are you going to hit on?”
“…someone I like…”
“Who do you like?”
“…someone…”
“Who?”
“…hot chicks…”
“Which ones?”
“…the hot ones…”
She had to smile again at his ambiguity. She’d always been drawn to him for his sarcastic wit—and it was still there, even in his barely-conscious state. A little flutter rose in her stomach as she recalled sarcastic arguments they’d had over nonsensical issues—he usually won, grinning the whole time. She loved that grin.
“Hey, what’s your e-mail password?”
“…mmm…”
“Never mind, you—“
“’Strawberryjam’…”
“Really?”
“…mmm…”
“Your password is ‘strawberryjam’?”
“…mmm-hmm…”
“Where do you keep you spare key?”
“…flowerbox, under mom’s window…”
“So I can let myself in from now on?”
“…no…”
“Why not?”
"…moving key somewhere else…”
She laughed that time, then yawned. It was nearly 5:00 by then. She knew she should sleep, but she didn’t want to hang up just yet. He was being adorable. She paused, listening to the soft, steady breathing on the other end of the line, disturbed only by the faint, occasional chirp of the early birds beginning to wake outside her window. She curious about one other question; she’d wanted to ask him for a while, but never could bring it up. He gave another sigh; rustling sounds told her he’d rolled over. She decided to finish up—she needed to sleep.
“Hey, go to sleep. Hang up the phone.”
“…no…”
“Come on…”
“…mmm…”
“If I was a hot chick, would you do it?”
“…you are hot…”
“Really? Does that mean you’d hit on me?”
“…mmm-hmm…”
“So why don’t you?”
“…dunno…”
“Are you scared to date me?”
“…no…want to…”
Her stomach fluttered again.
“You want to date me?”
“…mmm-hmm…”
It fluttered a little more. She’d always wondered about it. He meant more than just a friend to her, but she’d never known the other side. She knew her feelings were strong, but she could never admit them—she was scared she felt a little too strongly. She decided to ask her question.
“If we were together, do you think you would love me?”
“…I already do…”
There was a pause before she realized she had been holding her breath. She let it out slowly as her heart pounded and the fluttering in her stomach reached through her whole body. It was another while before she said anything—she listened to him breathe a time, wondering what he was dreaming about as he slept on the phone. Finally, she started to drowse off to sleep herself, still feeling fluttery the whole time.
“Hey, go to sleep, you. Hang up the phone.”
“…hmm?…”
“Go to sleep.”
“…okay…”
“Goodnight,”
“’Night…good luck…”
“Thanks, bye,”
“…bye…”
She hung up the phone on her end and rolled onto her back. Staring at the ceiling, she thought about what he’d admitted, that she’d taken advantage of his unconscious babbling, that he wouldn’t remember it at all. She wondered how she would look at him the next day; too shy to reveal what she’d learned, too shy to tell him she loved him, too shy to do anything about it—but fluttery all the same…
…He hung up the phone on his end and rolled onto his side to go to sleep. He wondered if she knew he’d been awake the whole time…