I have insomnia and shall not be happy tomorrow

Well, here it is, 1:30 in the morning here in Newfoundland and I can't sleep. Which is not good since I have a pottery class tomorrow morning and then work all day. I am going to be the living dead. While as cool as zombies appear, they make poor employees except perhaps at Walmart. Maybe a hot shower or bath will help. Yes, a bath full of epsom salts, originally named for Epsom, England where they used to harvest it from the local waters. Magnesium sulphate, yes, sounds lovely. Relaxes the muscles. The carton said add 4 cups of the stuff to relax though. That would be half the carton, I believe. That seems like a little much, but perhaps that's just the Epsom Salt Manufacturers Mafia talking.

I can't stopped worrying about odd things either. Like those two book clubs I joined in January and forgot that I needed to change my address with them after I moved to Newfoundland. Oops. Not as thought my credit rating was any good anyway. Also, the current world state is quite alarming. It was nice for CBS to come up with that "Jericho" series. The American public needs a compelling and dramatic public service announcement for what to do in case of nuclear attacks.

Ah, the radio. I live with a man who will listen to anything on the damn radio. I'm still annoyed with the current state of music. Nelly Furtado apparently has discovered sex after being such a nice Portugese Catholic girl who sang in church and made the family smile oh so proudly. Now she has changed her name to Slutty McSlut-Slutterson (not really) and created a bunch musical variations on the theme of "OMG, sex is like SO kewl!!!! I'm a big kid now!!! Guys want my body!!! It's a wicked marketing tool!!!" So now I can listen to 6 year old girls singing along to her hits "Promiscuous Girl" and "Maneater". Honestly. It is creepy and irritating at the same time. Just as creepy as when I heard some little girls singing about their non-existant lovely lady lumps.

Then there's Fergie of the Black Eyed Peas, who are going through that funny little existential experimental stage of life where you see if material possessions will make you have more added value and meaning (despite that rather catchy little song "Gone Going"). Fergie has a solo album and yes, I hate that daft "London Bridge" song, which verges on baby-talk with it's nursery rhyme reference. Apparently getting drunk, owning expensive shite, and acting like an asshole is the very vanguard of female power these days. Grey Goose got you loose? Well, yes, alcohol is the responsible drug of choice for grown-ups instead of that nasty E you almost burned your brains out on, eh, Fergie? Ecstasy is such kid stuff. Remember what a lifetime of glossy magazine ads and over-produced television spots have told you : consuming alcohol is the mark of being a successful adult.

I'm not knocking alcohol consumption. But I either have a glass of wine or a dark malt beer for the flavour. I'm not using it as a personality enhancer, status symbol, or self medication. If you can't have a good time without it altering your mind, mood, and behaviour, what does that say about you? Perhaps that your natural state is not good enough to be enjoyable? That's a sad thought. Also, what does it say about your friends and loved ones? They're not good enough to be around unless you're interracting with them through a filter of liquour?

Ah. 2 am now. The eyelids are a little droopier but all I feel is a desire to play games online. Maybe I still need that bath.