To be afraid to sleep. . .

. . . knowing that my subconscious mind is entirely capable of making decisions without consulting the rest of me, and not knowing if my stress levels and feelings of dissolution have gotten to the point at which I'll go to bed and wake up having given up.

I've told Kevin that if I'm still awake when he gets up in the morning, this is why.

. . . and I realize the silence is driving me mad and turn on the changer and get . . .

Addendum: Irony, thy name is music:

Faster than the speed of night,
Faster than the speed of night,
It's all we ever wanted
And all we ever needed
And now it's slipping through our fingers
Faster than the speed of night.

In actuality, it's a lust-song, but . . . .

Brain broken!

I poked at the web and found a calendar for 1773 with holidays marked on it (for running the plot I'm currently running on NE2.

So now I know when Ash Wednesday fell in 1773, which is the critical bit of information that I needed.

The calendar also includes Martin Luther King Day, Australia Day, Professional Secretaries Week, Earth Day, International Labour Day, . . . Independence Day for the States. . . .

. . . I didn't know there was a Mother-in-law's Day. . . .

(gwynyth, if you didn't know about this thing, it's here and I got there from here. In case you would find such useful.)

Have fun storming the video rental!

I just got a phone call from Kevin, telling me that he's raided the websites of a video rental chain and found one between the office and here that might have a copy of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. So he's going to check on the way home from work.

Detached self-analysis

The weirdest thing about being under this level and this type of stress is how, instead of being fairly consistently integrated across my aspects, I'm shifting very abruptly from personality to personality, with each one fronting for a varying amount of time before some stimulus or other sends another one dominant.

It's like a dial, going click-click-click. There's no transition. One moment I'm bawling my eyes out, the next moment I'm analysing the correct language for referring to the personality that's currently in the driver's seat.

I'm Darkhawk now. I was Silver five minutes ago, and back where I was last night before Do Not Baboon knocked me solidly into the Altair's Child for the night. My shirt is still damp from that, but I can see again. Occasionally I dip into Stormwolf for abrupt split seconds of blind rage and then snap into someone else. I'm not . . . the integrated personality, I'm the splinters, each in turn.

Fascinating, captain.

Hm. Kevin's come home. With R&G Are Dead.