Sleep Tracking 3-4-21 & Darmok in Whey and Sonic Screwdrivers.

  • March 4, 2021, 11:27 a.m.
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  • Public

Time in bed: 5:25 am - 10:30 am.

You can math it.

Yeah, I had an odd night.

Everything yesterday started nice. Even put on clothes before pajamas when I woke up. Motivate? I wanted to put the rent check in the “night slot” before the office opened.

What, don’t tell me you don’t do it, too. I’m an introvert. Pandemic or not, I prefer to avoid humans. Woke up yesterday around 8, and quickly realized “CRAP, OFFICE OPENS AT NINE.” And was able to quickly pee, rinse my face, get dressed, write a check, and drop said check in the “night slot” long before any of the office employees showed up.

If you think of me as a skittish cat, everything makes sense.


After all, what does any usual cat do?

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Funny how my motivations go.


I recall having a pretty good day yesterday. As far as TimmyDays go. Had my oatmeal, had lunch. Spraybottling my four cats left and right to defend my food from their begging. And. It didn’t make logical sense.

My mood dropped. I thought of everything I could do. Everything. And nothing appealed to me. How did I feel? Sad? With a touch a loneliness. I gave myself a chance to curl up in the back bed with a stuffed animal. And I burst out crying. I couldn’t find a reason why. There was no reason.

Those are always a bitch. If you have a reason, at least you can examine it. Sans a reason, well, mind might try to find a reason. Rational or reasonable or not. Thankfully, I stopped any sort of that overanalyzing nonsense.

So, I wordvomited on a friend. I wasn’t sure if it would do anything. She’s been very good at handling me, never ever making me feel judged.

Sometimes talking makes things worse. All I HAVE TO THINK OF HOW I AM FEELING. In this case? Just. Speaking and being heard helped.

Such a simple thing. Whether it was what I needed or not, it helped.

Emotions stripped of context.

I coined this phrase. There is your thesis statement, We shall see if I can explain this one.

Later on in the evening, an olde internet friend contacted me. (Oh, at this point, just assume most of my friends are internet friends. Sure, some I have met in person. Some I met in person and are now exclusively online. But with the pandemic OH YOU GET IT.)

Here’s the thing. I knew I knew her. Except, I couldn’t think of anything I knew about her. I tried to remember to where I knew her from. Wasn’t Open Diary. Didn’t think it was LJ. My guess was fetlife. (Which was correct.) Just one look at her face, and I knew.

I couldn’t remember anything about her at all.

All I knew is that I could trust her. Emotions stripped of context.

It has been a long-standing fear that I will lose my memory. It’s why I wanted a Wife I could trust. I have one. That I would be on my deathbed, forgetting everything except that I could trust my Wife.

And you fuckers wonder why I don’t get a divorce. ^^^ Right there.

Anyway. Chatting with Sam. Actually, this line of thought came earlier, but came to mind again while talking to her.

I don’t really ask questions. I wordvomit. I wordvomit in the hopes someone will wordvomit in return.

I have longstanding “rule” from the AIM days: Don’t go after someone with a crowbar. As in, if you try to pry someone open with a bunch of question, IT WON’T WORK. It goes both ways. I don’t like when people come at me aggressively with questions. But if we build up trust and you ask me questions? I’ll answer.

Might be traced back to a Jersey diner when I was 16. Was with some “older” associates. Hey, when you’re are sixteen, those that are 17 or 18 definitely feel older, to say nothing about my emotional immaturity. I was asked “Who are you?” or something to that effect. HOW THE FUCK DO YOU ANSWER THAT.

I hate the random “How are you?” Like, right now? This past week? This past year? My lifetime? How IS my life? Like, do you want to know if I need to pee? What I last ate? Last time I wanked? What I watched last on Netflix? The amount of petrol in Clarissa Clutch? How much I miss my Wife? The weather?

This is why, in a way, I appreciate Darmok culture. When friends see something Star Trek, they send a meme to me.

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Which happens to be a fantastic way to message me. Makes me feel “THEY SAW THIS AND THOUGHT OF ME.

I.... I don’t really ask too many questions. Unless I have a hunch. Unless I feel it is the time to ask questions. Unless I feel that trust is there, I don’t ask questions. “The first rule of Project Mayhem is you do not ask questions.” I… feel it rude to ask questions.

As I hate when people question me without warrant? Like, who the fuck are you?

So I do the same in return. I don’t ask questions. Which may be to my detriment, as I may be missing out on the personal lives of so many friends I love so dearly.

I do try to remember. “Let’s see, what’s their thing.... So um. How’s… the thing?”

But with internet friends, it gets fuzzy. So fuzzy.

Again, it is easier with friends I have met in person. I have this basis of who this person really is. I can feel the context of their voice a bit easier. Anyone who has met a friend in person knows that short transition when your brain processes EVERYTHING said online through some short body language exhibited by this live flesh and blood human before you.

And then CLICK it all makes sense. For me, at least.

But sans all that body language. Sans a voice. Sans anything. It is just words on a page.

This is why I was never into reading books. I can’t connect. If I watch the movie version, I can, but words on a page, I can’t connect as much.

And so I trust Sam. Trust without context.

tl;dr: We had a nice meandering conversation.

I then proceeded to stay up late watching Star Trek. You’re not surprised.

And if you don’t understand what Darmok culture is, seriously, watch TNG s5e02 “Darmok”.

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Because meme culture IS Darmok in the these evolving times.

PS: At first I was adding images for lulz. Or for context. Now, I’m trying to do it whenever possible to hit the senses more. It not only adds a bit of formatting to break up a wall of text, but it lets you feel something in addition to just words on a page. Thus why, when I get descriptive in my novels, I get REALLY descriptive, as I have difficulty understanding vague/mysterious descriptions by shithead authors who are just trying to show they know how to speak English. English? You can speak it, but you clearly don’t know a plasma coil from a self-sealing stem bolt. (That itself was more DARMOK......)

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