Crazy pattern

It's 2.37 a.m., and Franz Ferdinhand keeps bating at me to stay awake, while my body- my eyes, my head, my back, my neck...fuck, even my hair- tells me otherwise. It tells me to count my losses and just turn in for the night. Somehow music, thinking, and just writing random shit keeps me up. It's a vague hunger that I have to keep feeding the boredom, a vague feeling that my day sucked, and that the only redeemable part of it was talking to Dana. 2.40 a.m. now I think. Three minutes. Franz just keeps on singing. I keep on writing. Clock keeps ticking. Brain keeps churning. It'd be cool if it produced something worth remembering. It'd be cool if it'd output something worth saving in the pages of my hopeful book. It'd be cool if I'd shut the fuck up and go to sleep. Franz keeps singing... so I obviously must keep regurgitating todays thoughts into this meaningless jumble of words, phrases, anectdotes- wait, this is just a random rambling, there isn't anything useless like an anectdote here. Fuck, I keep trying to flatter myself. Flattery is an interesting thing. Might as well give a compliment. If only I had a compliment from any other than Dana worth saving. This is starting to have a pattern, isn't it. My life sucks, except if Dana is involved, they it's all okay. She seems to live under different rules, where I'm actually desireable. That's some crazy shit for you right there... but I'll just pick it up and go along with it. If I've got her fooled, then I've got everything I need.