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2001-02-04 Very late at night, after several poor starts, I sit and try to think of anything to write here, conscious that writing will keep me so wakeful that I won't feel well tomorrow. I am determined to write something, because I don't want to go to bed feeling defeated by the lateness of the hour; nor do I want to wake up feeling that I need to break into my "work day" to write something to make up for my failure to do so tonight. But I must be careful not to write anything that causes me to feel any sort of personal attachment or admiration—because in that case I'll be too tempted to stay up editing and re-reading it; and I must be absolutely certain not to write anything that's liable to keep repeating in my head when I finally try to sleep. At best, I can walk away from tonight's entry right now and have no more dull-headed a Monday than usual; whereas to keep at it could be catastrophic. It's like that scene outside the planetarium in Rebel Without a Cause, where James Dean refuses to fight. What if he could really control himself, enough to keep from going to the cliff that night—what if instead of playing chicken he just stayed home and got some sleep? Maybe in a year he'd be editing the school newspaper, preparing for college, getting satisfying blow jobs from the Sal Mineo character. If it weren't for pride it wouldn't be too late.