I could sleep, I could sleep--when I lived alone-- is there a ghost in my house?

I find myself oversleeping on days when time is of the essence (like yesterday when I worked at 6:30pm and took that as a cue not to do anything beforehand), times (like today) when I could have had an insanely lazy lie-in, I wake up at 8am.

This is not interesting, or artistic, or particularly personal. I suppose it could have gone in the livejournal-I've-had-so-long-I-don't-bother-to-get-rid-of. But it goes here.

Likewise, the fact that in spite of myself I am compiling best/worst lists in my head and thinking through ideas to reviews I'll never write, theories as to why Fucked Up is representative of one of the both perpetually best and worst continuing trends in underground rock music, why It Might Be Okay Now to write poems Just to Read Aloud since its in a Different Context (yet why I'm already sick of my own Zombie Poem because I think I'm finally almost done with the nerd humour) and the Pretentious Use of Capitals to Symbolize a Much Longer Discussion.

Youtube: a cheap jukebox for the man without an i-pod and a disdain for constant myspace surfing. what's the difference? none. there is none.