To all you pseudo doctors or medical enthusiasts out there, I have a favor to ask.

How long can a man (or a stickboy) function on less than three hours of sleep a night before extreme mental and physical collapse is achieved. I don't want to get there. It would take way too much time to make my way back into the realm of reality.

So someone must know of a study, or something they heard, or something. I would verily appreciate the info as I have to do so many other things in the next eight days.

Incidentally, in class this morning after artificially keeping myself coherent for the majority of the night, I began to shudder and shake and have severe anxiousness which made me look like some guy who was a full moon away from becoming a werewolf. It was extremely uncomfortable, especially to that pristine girl to my left who heard me sigh and moan, moving because I have to, not because I want to.

Then again, I might be a werewolf.

Any info on if I might be a werewolf would be appreciated as well.

I asked myself the other day if anyone deserves to die. I then talked myself out of the entire premise seeing as though no one deserves anything.

But then I'm at Pano's enjoying my third cup of coffee of the hour and an overly decorated cheesecake, desperately trying to prolong the morning. I'm reading Crime and Punishment, Dostoyevsky. The thought above is still in my head when I read this line:

"Of course she doesn't deserve to live," the officer observed, "But then that's nature."

I've convinced myself that coincidences are as common to me as that drop of rain hitting the gutter in perfect time I hear right now, but that one . . . thinking that then reading that did so mess with my mind and I now feel anxious. The reason why I asked the question above at all is yet to be explored, but I'll dive in that one day. Now for some over the counter pick me ups . . .

Incidentally, I'm seriously toying with my threshold in which, of course, lies my feeble attempt to block any desire to just let the absurdity get to me for once and for all.

Half of you are sleeping. Half of you are curious. Half of you are scared at what will happen. And the fourth half of you don't give a shit.

I like you guys, did I ever tell you that . . .

And as Bob once said . . . in Jersey anything's legal, as long as you don't get caught.

stay tuned . . .

click.

I'd like to propose a toast.

To the girl in the deli right by my house who had me stammering over my order because of the simple way she smirked and smiled while she wrote down on a pad, so eloquently, so full of passion - md. turkey w/let, tom, prov n mayo.

Ah it made my hour.

I shall return to see if we'll still have that intensity I just described. I probably won't do it for a week or two, to keep her guessing of course. I'll eventually learn her name. Her Dad will joke with me about using cell phones. Then, after about three months, I'll say let's cut the ham sandwich girl, and like Bruce Springsteen in Asbury Park I'll say, "Tie up your apron bebe. You're coming with me."

Then she'll say something about how her favorite book is something J.K. Rowling wrote, and I'll sigh. We'll do it for maybe three months, but that one nagging notion will be present with every ass grab, every too loud moan, every time she says, please, can we shut off the lights.

But you're beautiful bebe and I's wants to see dat.

Nah, I don't think so.

Well okay.

It'll come to pass that I loved her immensely whilst she made sandwiches. But even I am willing to prolong what I understand to be the potential for disaster.

There's always subway now isn't there.

So I did the movie thing. They need better questions, but . . .

Looks like I'd be in Fight Club too.

There's a fucking shocker, huh.

Well naked people, there you go. . .

This is after I just pummeled the shit out of a 29 year old marketing manager who once called me "Big Guy" in a saftey meeting.

And please don't use that gate into my psyche as an opportunity to piss me off.

I thank you.