Exhausted this afternoon... I've been insomniac for weeks. I can't even make myself sleep in the afternoons. I can't focus on things I need to be doing--- trying to review French, reading about international human rights law. I haven't been able to sit and write in my paper journal in a week or so.

The thing in the mirror looks back at me: risus sardonicus. The thing in the mirror is a mockery of everything I once was.

I still don't know what's behind the doors at 512 W. 112th St. Faux-Ottoman tiles, a brass rail up the three steps from the street. Whatever is inside there--- is it "The Shining" or "Mulholland Drive"? And it's as certain as anything that no girl will ever kiss me in that foyer. No girl will ever kiss anyone who can be the thing in the mirror.

Home football game this weekend. The first one of the season. Too much traffic, too many people, tailgaters blocking the parking lots near the coffeeshop by the university gates. I hate football weekends--- I hate crowds and I hate sports. I hate all the rah-rah social events. I really hate sports.

I did go to a Persian-themed restaurant for a late lunch. Call it something done in honour of Miss Ginny at ginny_mccoo. Lamb kebab, rice, grilled chunks of onion and red pepper, nan. The waiter wasn't Iranian--- Georgian, actually. We spoke and he told me he'd grown up in Tblisi and come over here for university a couple of years ago.

Miss Ginny at ginny_mccoo still needs to tell me when her birthday is. And I need to talk to her about co-ed fashion. She writes about McGill co-eds in cut-off denim short shorts and black leggings or tights. I really dislike stockings on girls. I like long, slender, sleek, taut, bare legs. I live in the Deepest South--- Miss Ginny noted that the American South is still a place where girls work on suntans. Long, tanned bare legs under short skirts or short shorts. I like that. Miss Ginny tells me that she's Slavic-pale, that she didn't tan even in Mexique. I might like her in short-shorts with black ankle-length leggings and ballet flats. I think that might work for her. And she does have very kissable ankles.

I've lost track of how long it's been since any lovely wicked clever promiscuous girl has called late at night to say she was in her dorm room in just a t-shirt or stretched on crisp fresh sheets in nothing at all: So, Eduardo-kun, whatever would you do to me...? No one is ever going to call and ask that again. The last girl to do that now thinks of me with contempt. Not that the thing in the mirror isn't worth contempt.

Co-eds in skinny jeans... I'll never have a lovely leggy girl wear ultra-low skinny-leg jeans for me, any more than a girl will wear short-shorts and a zippered hoodie and be a liminal-season co-ed for me. No girl finds me worth dressing up for any more than a girl finds me worth calling. Miss Ginny at ginny_mccoo and Miss bladeoftheknife will never dress up for me. There are girls undoing keffiyehs and unbuttoning panty-free skinny jeans and kicking off cheap, thin rubber flip-flops or ballet flats and climbing into beds. But never mine. The thing in the mirror--- ruined, haggard face, failed eyes, dead hair, obviously doomed to a bald spot, decayed flesh ---is worth nothing to beautiful girls. Not even as a voice.

I can't read notes/comments people leave. I can't read messages at LastFM. I can't open e-mail. I can't face anything that might be Bad News. I can't face derision and mockery. And I never, ever get Good News. Certainly I never get flirtation and seduction and hope.

I can't read anything that might be Bad News. But I hate it and feel empty and angry and bitter when I don't get notes at all. Isn't that what happened with Ioana at winterbymorning--- that I was too afraid ever to open her notes? The Other Melissa at kraftig_bewegt once left a dozen or so notes all in a row at an entry. Needless to say, they're still unread. Doing that was obviously an act of mockery and derision. The "Tiled Foyer" entry from a night or two ago--- no one commented on it, but there are four (unread) comments on the next entry. Why at one but not the other?

I have "Adventureland" to watch tonight. A small film that comes highly recommended by a lovely girl with green eyes. I'll watch it and drink a bottle of sauvignon blanc and brood about never getting to talk with her about it. Or getting to sit and watch "Control" or "The Dreamers" with her while smoking a joint and making out.

I get envious and bitter about the idea of a beautiful girl smoking pot. Miss Ginny smokes pot at McGill parties. Miss Lissy at emigree smokes pot with hippie friends in Baltimore and at Human Rights Watch parties at Columbia. Laura-Ashlee at bladeoftheknife smokes pot naked in bed with lovers while listening to Ravi Shankar and the Doors. Doing that is that doing acid at parties or dance clubs. A marker for having a social life, for being able to do things that have a taste of transgression and defiance. I like girls who smoke--- cigarettes as much as joints ---since I do equate transgression with sexuality. I don't get to smoke joints--- though it would only count if it could be with a lover, whether at a party or in bed listening to Ravi Shankar. Like a MacBook Pro, smoking a joint like that is one more marker for having value.

Why do girls find something like Led Zeppelin's "Black Dog" to be useful sex music? I always hated guitar rock, hard rock, and metal. Too much testosterone, too many swaggering boys with long hair and bad outfits. Sex music for me is something elegant and dark and about style and mannered decadence. But I suppose that sex for me has always been about scenarios and games. The actual physical act isn't as important as the scenario. I could have sex to Ravi Shankar, yes--- but only because I'd be thinking about being part of "Darjeeling Express" or taking Miss Ginny at ginny_mccoo to Dharamsala. I can't be any of the things I want to be as a lover if "Black Dog" is playing. Dear God--- doesn't the Other Melissa at kraftig_bewegt listen to hard rock?

Dharamsala--- Miss Ginny wants to go there. And there's a Vampire Weekend song that references Dharamsala. I may be the last living person who still likes Vampire Weekend--- or at least the last who'll admit it.

A Samsung L310W--- camera or camera phone? Who knows? Samsung L310W--- is it new, is it hip? Is it something Miss Lissy at emigree would have?

I really hate it when girls talk about being 'in love' or about monogamy. Those things are always weapons deployed against me--- ways to let me know how valueless I am, ways to emphasise that no girl will ever find me worth her time, ways to emphasise that no girl has or ever will choose me over Others--- over anyone. I'm not a thing that anyone would ever choose over any other option at all. No girl would ever do with me any of the things she'd do for Others.

512 W.112th St., not far from Broadway. I have no idea what's there. It's all very "Mulholland Drive". Very "The Shining". But I know I'll never be on the Skinny Island to find out.

I can listen to Serge Gainsbourg. "Serge Gainsbourg is God!" Miss Ginny says. That whole seductive Sixties French pop thing--- his notorious affair with Jane Birkin, the whole "Melody Nelson" naughty-schoolgirl thing. I can listen to Serge Gainsbourg and envy him the young Jane Birkin. Not that any girl will ever kiss me while Serge Gainsbourg sings. And I still need to know Miss Ginny's birthday.

Everyone is off at the football game tonight--- or partying, whether on the Skinny island or in Montreal or Birmingham. I'll be here drinking and reading Cormac McCarthy's "Outer Dark" and maybe watching "Adventureland" or "I'm Not There", the Bob Dylan film with Cate Blanchett and Heath Ledger and Charlotte Gainsbourg. I realy do like "I'm Not There"--- a recommendation from Laura-Ashlee at bladeoftheknife, just like "Control". Just like "Brick" was a recommendation long ago from Lissy at emigree. I wish I could have her here. I wish I could have Miss Ginny sit and watch "The September Issue" or "The Double Life of Veronique" with me.

But there won't be kisses or a lovely girl naked in my arms. There won't be a wicked phone call. No Voices on the Aether. Not tonight, not ever again. The thing in the mirror doesn't deserve anything but contempt and derision.