I called Marilyn today. She saw it was me and disconnected. I just stood there for like ten seconds, unsure of what to do, or what to feel. How am I supposed to act? Women have always been hard for me, and I think it's because they're the most complicated. The smallest things push them away, and when you finally reel them back again you wonder if all that effort was even worth it. I mean, the sex is good and there's always something about having a real live woman to share your presence with. But really, though. Sometimes I wonder if that whole side of the species has an overreaction gene. Maybe Marilyn isn't the girl for me, I thought today, but I called her anyway. I haven't got anything better.

I woke up today around two o'clock, with another headache. This one, however, was of the hangover persuasion. Half a bottle of White Russian sat capped on my bedside table. I've always been kind of embarrassed over my capacity for alcohol; it wasn't even three quarters full when I started. I got out of bed and had my Culinartiste' make me some eggs while I popped idly into the Mead and ordered up some news. Something about unrest overseas, in the Middle East, and I stopped paying attention. When the only news is about unrest in the desert, nothing important's happening in the world. I'm waiting for the next big thing to happen, something huge like the 2012 French Revolution or that city in China that got nuked by accident four years ago. I need something to hold my attention, to make me feel something. Like a person.

And I would have just walked around my flat all day in the nude like that, but I had to call Marilyn.

Well, that wasn't the only reason. Is it odd that I'm worried about being caught in the buff by bloody time travelers from the future? I'm starting to think maybe I made the whole thing up to keep myself entertained.

"Temporal dislocation."

I ordered seven books about it today. They'll be here tomorrow; I wonder if I'm obsessed?