Magnifico's journal

I've always been strange about sleep. It just never came quite so naturally as it seems to for other people.
Doctor tells me that I have a biochemically imbalanced something or another. Something to do with my pineal gland and circadian rhythms.
Either way, I love walking around my neighborhood at night. Especially since a gas station was erected not a quarter of a mile from my home. I'll walk down, purchase a Red Bull or a Mountain Dew (product placement!) or something else carbonated and caffeinated, and stroll around the neighborhood.

I hate curfews. And cops who get pissy about curfews.
"Boy, what are you doing out this late?" Germantown cop. (God only knows why the wanker is in Memphis. No jurisdiction. . .)
"Ah? Sorry. Just walking down to the Shell."
"You know there's a curfew? You ain't s'posed to be out this late."
"Sorry, sir. I just don't sleep well, and I'm kinda thirsty. I didn't think I was hurting anyone. . ." I'm getting a bit perturbed, right?
"Well, you best get on home a'fore I take you to the station."

Like I'm harming anybody by purchasing ungodly quantities of taurine, L-carnitine, and guarana.
There's too much goddamned testosterone in this town.

This post was edited by Magnifico on Jul 08, 2003.

I don't really know why I torture myself like this.
I've never liked the concept of hallucinogenic drugs (or, for that matter, needles. . . like I'd fscking trust a drug that I can only use by jamming a little piece of metal into myself), because, frankly, I don't like the idea that my perception is beyond my control.
I don't know why I torture myself with sleep deprivation, except that I enjoy the brief euphoric period, during which I begin, as any person would, to dream while I am still awake. It's magnificent.
A combination of tea, Tiger Balm, a leather chair, and sleep deprivation creates a level of sensory overload and a kinesthetic serendipity.
A stream-of-consciousness dream, a thought process of sight and sound, smell and flavor. It's an astounding breakthrough of consciousness, and I love it because I recognize that I'll soon hate myself for it. My weakness, my love, my muse.
A fleeting dervish of color flits across my peripheral vision, briefly giving me a taste of what is to come. A vortex of Red Bull and stomach aches, a combination of joy and pain that I can't help loving.

I don't really know why I torture myself like this.
But I love it.

This post was edited by Magnifico on Feb 09, 2004.

Quiet night.
Scary night.

Good God I'm caffeinated. I've had, today, a Red Bull, a Monster Energy (one whole can of Monster roughly equals two Red Bulls), two cups of genmai cha (tea with toasted rice in it), and a 20 oz bottle of Mountain Dew.
Everything is so funny now, though. I talked to my back-up muse about, among other things, the dangers of caffeine, what it would be like to make an uber-special tea (nutmeg, cactus buttons, cannabis, and yerba mate leaves), whether or not our actions are predetermined, and why "Pig" is such a lame name for my guinea pig.
God bless you, Evie.
*twitchtwitch*

Return.
I'm back from a week-long NAO sabbatical, which I spent at the Junior Leadership camp for a program called Bridge Builders (it's all about diversity and unity and happiness and really lame-ass dances ^_^). I met someone there. Said person is quite possibly the coolest person in the world. And probably doesn't realize I exist.
Sigh.
Schwa.
It sucks, even though the feeling is so great.
(Oh and Anduril: I'm not talking about teh evil pixie)

Sw33t! I've got. . .

TEH NEW HARRY POTTER!
Squee, squee, squee, schwa, SQUEE!

Bought it at the midnight release.
It's amazing.
Sweet jumpin' Jehoshaphat yahoo! It's a stunner in the second chapter. . . ooh, you won't believe it (if'n you care for this sort of thing, that is)

This post was edited by Magnifico on Jun 21, 2003.

It's amazing what one conversation can do for my mind. I talk to Cali, my dearesterest muse, just one time, and it's like divine inspiration. I got two poems and a bassline down today, and now it's like I just can't go to sleep. Muses.

And Mountain Dew. God Bless the stuff; and when you add a Red Bull, it's 28 ounces of pure kinetic energy waiting for an outlet. So I just don't know what to do now. . . why not write a journal? Couldn't hurt (though my weak pattern-recognition skills tell me that every time I write a journal, I get dinged points for my NAO rank *gasp!*).

The song is called "Another Sad Song (Because I'm Weak)," one of the poems is called Muse and the other is yet unnamed. I'd post some of it, but I don't have the courage that some of the previous (pronounced "better") poets here have.

Mayhaps I should go off and philosophize, since I'm kind of in that mood right now. . .

Edit: Now I get to tab the song that I get to (actually, required to) play at the _mandatory_ talent show for a thing called BridgeBuilders for youth in the Memphis area. I barely know what it's for, but apparently I have to go. . .

This post was edited by Magnifico on Jun 07, 2003.