Answer hazy; try again later.

Laurie Anderson has a bit where she talks about visiting a palm reader "and the strange thing about the reading is that everything she told me was totally...wrong." That's what it was like when Rocky tried to cold-read me last night. He told me that I had some project I was working on that I was having trouble seeing through ("Nothing special comes to mind," I replied), that I'd recently had a death in the family (nope--not even for generous values of "recently" and "family"), that there was some guy from my past that I'd been thinking about a lot (a lot of guys I've been thinking about a little, but one guy I've been thinking about a lot? Does monshu count?), and that I was intelligent and I'd studied "a lot" (safe guess). I gave him no help; I just smiled and nodded as he continued to throw things out, in between exhortations to visit him when he was working so he could tell me more about the "many good things" he saw.

I can see how psychics make a living. Even being a total sceptic with a wicked desire to see him fail, I found it a little difficult to let him flounder like that. He didn't exactly radiate wholesomeness, but neither did he strike me as a scam artist. Most likely, he does believe (with what degree of sincerity, it's impossible to judge) that he possesses some kind of ability and it violates social conventions of tact to tell him, "No, dude, you're a douche." I might've pulled the plug earlier, but it was odd and amusing--as well as being a perfectly surreal ending to another decadent gay evening. He even had a Stonewall story! How sad is that? Every NYC queen over the age of 35 does and most of them are about as credible as Dan Savage on Iraq.

Slumber, where art thou?

It astounds me that, for a people with as much free time as we have, we spend so much of it sleep-deprived. I don't know how many of my daily entries start with commentary of my state of tiredness. (I'm a little embarrassed to consider it, actually.) And I'm hardly alone. Insomniac entries abound on LJ. And rollick's sleep journal would certainly be of great interest to sleep researchers everywhere.

I got back to monshu's around 2:30 last night. And then I couldn't sleep. I was exhausted, but that wasn't enough. I considered drafting an entry, but I didn't want to risk waking him, so I went into the living room and made some notes. After a while, I drifted off, but I swear I dreamt almost the entire time, so it can't have been very restful. Around 8 or so, I got up, we hung out for a bit, and then made love. (I tried to compensate for the sleepiness by getting a little too acrobatic and almost brought things to a crashing halt. Oops.) An orgasm is one of the most reliable ways of zonking me out--but I squandered this one writing the previous entry. It felt like I was fighting sleep--out of what, I don't know. Sheer contrariness? When I finally laid down, I wasn't snoozing more than half-an-hour before my doofball older brother called to talk. I flatly refused, but the damage had been done--we were both wide awake again.

Sort of, that is. I went into the other room where monshu was watching t.v., and he was stretched out on the couch and looking drowsy. "Look at us," I said, "we stay out a little late one night..."

"...and spend the whole day after recovering," he rejoindered. "Aren't we sad."

So here's my last chance, I reckon. I'm lying down again, and if I don't drift off, I'll just be a fucking zombie tomorrow. I might be one regardless; earlier in the week, I was okay after one short night, and a mess the following day, despite much more sleep.

Sleep...sleep...sleep...