cornflakes in the bathroom.

I can’t sleep. It has been a fairly reliable inconvenience as of late. I have found that after a certain point it is best to stop trying. There are only so many sheep in the world and after you count them all once, it seems no use to give it a second go. So instead, I am eating cornflakes in the bathroom. It really seemed the lost logical place. I feel to guilty to force Patryk to stay awake with me. Again. Our apartment is very small and the kitchen is about six feet from the futon. Or poo-ton, as he calls it. I know some might think it cruel, but there are times I find it much more amusing not to correct him as he blunders through the English language. I feel it would be rude of me to take the enjoyment away from some future native English speaker when Patryk tells them that “it’s fojjy out”, when a heavy fog rolls in. My personal favorite is that for him a biscuit is really a “bisk-wit”. I think it is endearing, and one of the many reasons that make him deserving of a good nights’ sleep. So I quietly eat my cornflakes in the bathroom as not to wake him.

I am told that if you can’t sleep it is because you have something on your mind. Well, for the past hour all I have been able to think of are epilogues. I hate them. I feel for the most part that art should speak for itself. I hate it when artists inform you of what you were to divine from your newly received artistic experience. It reminds me of a show I saw where the program contained a bibliography of the director’s inspirations. Or maybe it doesn’t. I have been known to borrow memories, and I believe that one belongs to my friend Jon. But all the same I believe epilogues do the opposite of what they intend. If the work was good enough the point was already made and extra words at the end, tacked on to make sure you really understood, breaks the flow of it. It rots the mood.

My sister Lauren, before she ever kisses anyone new, first asks them whether they have any orally contractible diseases. Apparently she says it with a great deal of charm, but I am skeptical. That’s gotta rot the mood.