I am an insomniac. I cannot sleep. I'm not anxious, or overexcited, or over-caffeinated; Sleep simply does not come, or if it does, it does not stay.

Drugs do not help, nor does hypnosis, nor has any number of bizarre, folksy home remedies I've tried over the years. I lie awake and stare at the ceiling until I can stand it no more. I must move; I must accomplish something. Don't waste time, at least.

My wife doesn't understand. She thinks I don't like to sleep near her or the baby. I cannot convince her otherwise.

It's driving me mad.

The worst part of my aberrant sleep habits is not necessarily the insomnia. Worse are the dreams that do come.

They are called "night terrors."Everyone has them, even you. Or had them, I should say. Most everyone outgrows them when they are very little, two or three years old. I never did.

Being eaten. Being chased by something I cannot see. Being chased, then torn apart and eaten. These are the most common themes, though sometimes I drown. I cannot remember specifics; the nature of the beast makes the nightmares difficult to recall.

Tonight, I do not sleep again.

When I can't sleep, I try to watch television. I hate television.

I lived in Japan for six years, while in the Navy. I watched their television. I've been all over the world, port to port. I watched a little bit of everyone's television. Everybody's happy, cheery television programs.

American television isn't happy. It's about why I should be afraid, who I should hate, who I should lust after, and why I should be dissatisfied with who I am and what I own (or envy others who do own things). Why I should buy this or that. American television sucks.

There is no good reason why I shouldn't be able to sleep. It looks so easy—you lay down, you stare at the ceiling, your thought processes stop. You close your eyes, and you are gone.

How can it be so easy for you?!?!?! How is it done? Am I over-examining it? Am I trying too hard? Am I not trying hard enough?

Do I have a head full of bad wiring?

My son sleeps without thinking about it. Hours at a time. He fights it, like all children do. "I must stay awake! I don't want to miss anything!-

I hallucinate.

This is not an easy thing to admit, even anonymously. People are put away, doped up, and psychoanalyzed for such things. You are officially a Crazy Person. Tell me about your mother.

I know it's not real. It's nothing dramatic. The road wavers. Black cats stare too long. Monsters squirm in the corners of my vision, and hide when I turn to look.

I know it's from sleep deprivation. It clears up when I do get some sleep. Goddamn insomnia. I'm missing my appointment with my REMs, and they come to find me at the most inopportune times.

For once, I sleep. I dream of dead people.

They were people I knew, in person, but none of them were of any importance to me. There's a girl I knew in third grade who died of leukemia. A distant uncle. A neighbor from down the street who got into too much debt and hung himself. And others. No one important.

As you can imagine from my past entries, I have compiled a lot of sleep and dream-related books. There are plenty of entries about dead relatives, but not dead strangers. Who were these people to me? Just background players.

"100 Words"guidelines defines a day as "one sleep period to the next."

When you are an insomniac, you notice that all things revolve around sleep. Your health ("eat right, exercise, get plenty of rest-), learning (same advice), appearance ("you look tired-), and even speed-reading ("you must get enough rest to maintain concentration-) all require sleep. Your job suffers because "your performance isn't what it could be."Your personal life suffers, because your significant other thinks, "you aren't paying attention"and "you just don't care!-

My co-workers are certain that I have some sort of wicked late-night hobby. If only.

"Girls lie,"my mother said, her left eye wide, applying mascara in front of the mirror. "Wear a condom.-

That was the extent of The Talk.

Why? I didn't understand then; I was just thirteen. I didn't understand that some people just can't withstand the pressure of growing up and being an adult. They fear the future, the expectations that they will be self-sustaining. They want someone else to take care of them, do all of the worrying. And what easier way than to "accidentally"get pregnant?

It doesn't work. They never find that out until it is too late.

I slept last night! Dreamlessly! Without Ambien!

Only an insomniac could tell you how great this is. My particular brand runs in cycles; usually I can sleep two to four hours a night, but no more. Every so often, though, I get a good night. I got six hours! I know it doesn't sound like much (it's still lower than average), but trust me; it's nothing short of miraculous.

After a good night, the dark clouds over my head clear away. All is made new and beautiful, and my thoughts are unclouded by depression or a fuzzy vagueness on details.

The wife's pissed at me again, and I blame the goddamn Food Network.

"Weddings Weekend,"right? Girls love weddings; guys just endure them (unless they're gay). On TV, the girls do all the talking; the guy just sits in the background, hoping his friends aren't tuning in. "He looks bored,"my wife comments.

"He probably is. Guys don't like planning weddings or going shopping or all of that other girly stuff."

"I don't bore you like that, do I?-

"Yep. I hate shopping for drapes, shoes, clothes, and all that other stuff."

Can't believe I didn't see that one coming.

I went to the Memphis Zoo today. It's the first time I've ever been to this zoo; being in the Navy, I've been able to visit them all over the world (in case you're wondering, the best zoo every is the St. Louis Zoo, followed by the Singapore Zoo and the Ueno Zoo in Tokyo).

I went with my wife Yuki, her friend Hiromi, Hiromi's husband, and our kids. As we walk, people stare at us—an odd grouping of Japanese women, American men, and half-breed children, all pointing and babbling in Japlish. It's like being a UFO, only cooler.

My grandfather fell asleep on the couch in his trailer with a lit cigarette and burned to death in the resulting fire.

I remember sitting at the crematorium, thinking to myself, "Hell, he was already halfway there. Shouldn't we ask for a discount?-

Afterwards, we were going to spread his ashes out at the lake, but we lost them. My uncle found the urn a month ago in a box in the garage, where he kept motor oil for his boat. "Valvoline, Valvoline...Richard Reeder?-

It's ok to laugh. Were he alive, he would have gotten a kick out of it.

No sleep again last night. Now I face the Vicious Cycle.

It goes thusly—though I can't sleep, I'm still tired. But I have to be alert at work, so I can pay attention and dodge the slings and arrows. To get there, I have to caffeine up. Coffee or green tea, depending on how I'm feeling. I keep filling the cup throughout the day, just to keep myself going.

Insomniacs are supposed to avoid caffeine. I would avoid it all together—no way I'm going to risk missing out on some sleep! But I still have to function.

Shit.

Today on the news: overcrowded prisons. They point at all of the non-violent offenders and they say "why are they here?"The agenda, of course, is legalization of drugs and prostitution, because those were the only people they were talking to ("I didn't do anything wrong!-). Lots of hand-wringing, "prisons are so crowded, they may have to build more—in your neighborhood!-

(That's how the news gets you to keep watching—they scare you by threatening your money, your property, and your children)

I don't care about whores and crackheads. Just be honest about what you want, for fuck's sake.

I've been taking sleep aids for two days now, and boy do they work. Take ‘em at nine, give ‘em and hour, and wham!

I still wake up at night (even when doped), but never for very long. I usually jolt at 2 a.m. after going to bed at around 11 or so. Did the same last night, remembered looking at the clock...and that was it.

This morning I woke up feeling great. It's a good thing, because I have a full schedule today. I got no time for dragging ass. I wish I could sleep like that every day.

"Give me bloody candy."It was scrawled in child-like cursive across George's face.

My skin crawls. I don't know why. All kinds of shit gets written down on dollar bills—wheresgeorge.com, shopping lists, "Love, Grandma."

"Hey, how about getting the fuck out of the way?"the jerk with the whining kid snarled. I stepped away from the cashier so he could buy his Miller Lite and beef jerky.

"NOW!-

I hadn't read the words; I felt them as they raised themselves across the Federal Reserve Seal.

"Bloody candy?"

Why not?

Mr. Miller Lite and his brat will be sooo surprised.

We were counting on that money.

"Put it in, babe,"Jim opened his mouth and bit down on the mouthguard. Our little ritual.

I was afraid the moment we walked in. It was dark and smoky. Dangerous men wore suits and fiddled with lights and video cameras.

Jim had won several times. He is confident, handsome, and cocky; perfect fight tape material. But he made someone angry.

Now, Jim can't stop bleeding; the hotel bed is soaked with it. I can hear the manager's footsteps; we're trouble and we don't have any money anymore. I don't know what to do.

So there was Kyle, flashing his million-dollar smile, feeding the little Asian girl with the baby stroller his bullshit. Wasting time.

I pull my mask down and roll up behind her. She never sees the right that destroys her nose in a bloody spray, or the follow-up left that knocks her out cold. The kid starts wailing.

"Get the kid,"I order Kyle.

"Shiiit...-

"Get the kid! You waste too much time with that ‘talent scout' bullshit! Sweet talk in public, snatch when they're alone! Malento pays a thousand bucks for the cute cross-breed kids, not by the fucking hour!-

I am nothing. Worthless. Unemployable. But there is a way, they said. A way to become somebody.

I think of the money the men offered. Their word is good. My wife and son, they will be all right. For awhile.

The market is loud, vibrant. Children run and play, merchants and shoppers haggle over fruit. It is a beautiful day.

The policeman looks at me, eyes suspicious. He puts his hand on his radio.

I look up at the sun for one last time, and then close my eyes. I release the trigger and, for a brief moment, wait for Paradise.

The Devil himself looks over my shoulder as I write.

Words flow from my fingers, scorching keys. Letters shape words, utter nonsense—a corrupted document, someone else would say.

Except the person it was intended for. After they see it, they say nothing at all.

The collapse is quick. A heart attack, the paramedics murmur, shaking their heads sadly. Should've exercised more, the poor bastard.

The ‘space' key melts. My nose bleeds. The Devil cackles.

The symbols intertwine in the message. A carefully placed slash there, an asterisk here. 'Eight' is a sideways infinity.

Finished!

SEND.

You have mail, sucker.

I always wondered how it felt.

I spent my summers with my father, driving across the country in his rig. I remember the endless miles of interstate, the shimmering mirage of heat-pools in the distance that disappeared when you got too close. Mostly, I remember the bugs.

THWACK! THWACK! THWACKTHWACKTHWACK!!!

I asked my father how they felt in that last moment, when impact exploded their innards across the sun-heated glass. He didn't know.

I grip the steering wheel. I'm going to find out. I'll get out of my car and ask, if I have to.

"Student parade today."Perfect.

THWACK.

Victor chopped viciously at the multi-tentacled thing encased in the breastplate. Tentacles flew off in sprays of yellow gore, which meant nothing—as fast as Victor's greatsword severed them, the appendages grew back, double-headed. The thing squealed with every chop and replied with thrusts from the multitude of needle-thin daggers it wielded in its obscene limbs. The blades scratched against his armor, leaving long, thin trails of smoking venom that burned his eyes.

How had it come to this? he wondered. His life had no direction, no meaning anymore. It merely moved from one horrifically violent episode to the next.

They had gotten away with it. Her ex-husband was dead, and no one suspected them. One million dollars in the bank. Their marriage? A result of shared grief that blossomed into love. They thought they could live happily every after.

There is no happily ever after. The day-to-day drudgery of marriage was no substitute for the excitement of secret lust. Frankly, Kevin was beginning to see why Bill complained about her so much. She was a harpy that took great joy in belittling men.

And now, this new insurance notice. One million dollars for his "accidental"death. Nice try, bitch.

Why is the world going to end?

1. People cannot stand not to have things their own way, be it about religion, politics, etc. They won't just leave you alone, either; you will either conform or you will be endlessly harassed, propagandized, and (in extreme cases) killed.

2. Technology gives us the ability to affect more people than ever before. Our ancestors only had pointy sticks to poke their enemies; today, you can write a computer virus that wipes out banking systems and spread it around the world in a matter of hours, or drop a nuke and end civilization.

I climbed Mount Fuji once. I don't give a damn what anyone says, It was tough. I wasn't in the best of shape (Navy sea duty does that to you), but I was determined. I grit my teeth and kept putting one foot in front of the other.

At the top, there is a Buddhist temple. I was ashamed--here I was, sweating and gasping and bitching, with just the gear on my back. Some poor bastard had to carry a fucking marble lion all the way up.

On the way down, I saw the switchbacks and the ATVs. Cheaters.

"We've wasted all of the goodwill and sympathy we got after 9/11,"the pundit intoned.

Bullshit. I wasn't political back in those days—I couldn't tell the difference between Democrats and Republicans (I still can't, for that matter). But I was internet-savvy. It only took three days (enough time for the initial shock to wear off) before the snarky comments about how America had finally gotten its comeuppance started appearing on message boards and websites.

There never was any goodwill from the usual suspects. Their words update with the headlines, but the jealousy and schadenfreude remains as it always was.

She touched the box in her pocket and smiled. Her name would soon live forever with the rest of the great female betrayers of men—Helen, Pandora, Eve.

She had begged and pleaded for help. There were so many poor, starving, oppressed—but the fat, complacent people of the first-world didn't care. They had money to make and TV shows to watch and self-satisfaction to wallow in. Many mocked her.

There would be justice. The EMP box would destroy their precious technology, take away all of their unfair advantages. The poor of the world would worship her as a saint.

I whistle cheerfully as I work. I like my job.

I wheel the sodas up to the machine. Twenty-ounce bottles, big and heavy, but I don't mind. It's such a nice day, a good day to be out. People will be thirsty. They'll want some soda.

I take the syringe out of my pocket. Which one? Eeeny, meeny, miny...that one!

I poke the bottle with the syringe. The juice goes drip, drip. I pull the syringe out. Nice syringe, it doesn't leave holes.

I begin stocking the machine with sodas. I whistle cheerfully as I work. I like my job.

I am the traitor that runs away when you need me the most.

I flee as you lay wounded, dodging around rocks and garbage. You reach for me as I run, but you can't hold me back. I slip between your fingers, leaving only a meaningless, desperate stain.

You shouldn't have been here. You knew better. In a way, you betrayed me, because I won't last long without you. But you have the most to lose, and you have no one but yourself to blame.

I leave a red streak as I slide down the drain. Goodbye, you damned fool.

I witnessed a man become a god.

Charlie crawled from the window of the burning, overturned Humvee. His cammis were covered in gore; his pitch-black eyes surveyed the crowd. The celebration slowly died as they realized a dead man stood in their midst.

Charlie's head suddenly erupted in flames. He spoke, his voice deep and sepulchral, and his words bore tidings of doom. The crowd fell to their knees in worship and terror, wailing and clawing their faces. "Ia!-

We haven't been able to recover Charlie, alive or dead. Overcome with superstitious dread, the liaisons will not speak of him.