It's 3:30 and I can't sleep. I spent 30 minutes reading before bed. Lolita, because of this article which described it so well I rushed out to purchase a copy the day after I read it. I ran into one horrible, cheesy, pervy cover after another before giving up.
I confessed to Facebook. My friend's wife loaned me her copy, which manages to look tantalizing and innocent at the same time.
Okay yeah. So tonight it was me and Nabokov before bed, and then 3 hours of fever dreams with me and Humbert and Lo on a road trip together. All of the descriptions from the book were coming back to me. I was on that crazy ride with them. A hitchhiker.
I'm calling them fever dreams because I woke up intermittently due to noisy party-going types in the street and the quality of the wakings made me feel less than alone in my little apartment. I opened my eyes wide several times to confirm that my furniture hadn't been moved around.
And then. More sleep. More dreams. Rinse, repeat. 3 hours.
Up now because I've spent the last hour unsuccessfully trying to sleep like a normal person, and quit dreaming books and lechers. But I am excited about tomorrow's outfit and confused about a bunch of things and sleep is not easy tonight.
I want to yell it all out here. Shout it from the rooftops. Get it out so that I can get on with everything else.
This was a good start.
Good night.
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