I am riding a fresh wave of insomnia. The apartment is blessedly quiet, save the sounds of beautifulgarbage thinly pouring from my computer's speakers, my fingers tapping the keys and clicking the mouse, and my own voice laughingly repeating pleasing phrases I find in these diaries. The relative silence is so rare, I let it echo in my ears so I can remember it later.
Speaking of echoes, here is a narcissistic one. I have just spent the better part of two hours reading her from the beginning. Despite warnings to the contrary, I cannot but admire her.
I have made two important decisions this night:
a) Trying to make myself fond of this friend-of-a-friend is an activity destined to fail. I do not think I can turn over a new leaf quite so easily -- I am perfectly content to be friends with him, and if I do not burn to make more of the situation, then I apparently do not have the necessary passion to make an actual relationship work. This decision is, of course, subject to change, pending a report from the go-between: If I discover he is utterly smitten, the flattery may overcome sense.
b) I need a new image. In high school I was strictly a tapered-cut-jeans and knit-polo-t-shirts boy, with bulky sweaters in the winter. Thankfully, I came to my senses early in my college career, and decided to cultivate some taste. At one point I declared it a life goal to own everything in the Claiborne line. Buttoned oxfords, khaki Dockers, solid colors from the Gap. Conservative, but with enough kick to satisfy my newborn inner drama queen. More recently, I migrated to dirty-wash, boot-cut denims, DKNY, Calvin, and shirts that are probably too tight, along with a healthy dose of my fashion sense's previous Claiborne incarnation. Perhaps this desire for a makeover is inspired solely by the aforementioned diary, and my enthusiasm for it will die as the sun rises, unable to stand the heat of action. On the other hand, perhaps I have seen signs of my upcoming transformation already: to wit, new trousers fronted with red plaid and backed with leather. I am a touch frightened by what sort of new look those might signify.
And now I must lay down my weary head. I took out my contacts earlier tonight to rest my eyes -- an activity unperformed for almost three months -- and, as I have apparently lost my glasses, I have just spent many hours squinting myopically at the computer screen, and any hope of "rest" for my eyes was sadly misplaced.