I've been in control of music all night. I've made sure of this.
When it gets late enough everything seems like a personal attack.
Daylight savings time is fucking with all of us.
Maybe this was a bad concept… A lot of it was my idea, and I pushed for it fairly hard because I wanted this to turn out to be something that I'd like to read. I don't like disconnected, abstract stuff. I like concrete stories. It's not hard to babble and make it sound pretty.
Maybe I took too strong of a role at the beginning. Maybe I shouldn't have continually shut people down. Maybe the fact that it's 4:30 AM but really should be 5:30 AM, and the fact that we've been writing for 8 hours is getting to me. Maybe not.
If I keep writing at this pace I'll have 10,000 words done by 9:15 AM. I doubt I will keep writing at that pace. I think I'll probably fall asleep within the next hour or two. I don't want to.
I just kind of want to keep talking to the people here. I haven't spent time with DanKat lately, and I love them and am realizing how much I've missed them. They've also got me thinking about a lot of other things just by being around. It's rewarding and difficult and distracting, but in cathartic ways. Secret things.
I want to yell at the people who came here and started and then gave up so easily. Killing off characters is such a cop-out. I can't help but think back to Improv Troupe freshman year, where I said that toilet humor, drugs, and violence are to be avoided at all costs. They just make things too easy.
We've listened to most of the six hour playlist I have, as well as my entire Mountain Goats collection. Whenever I turned off my music someone else would put something shitty on. Now I'm never turning off my music, so people can't put on "I Will Survive" in Spanish.
Sarah just said "Shit" out loud. Kat is sitting with her computer on crossed legs. Dan is chewing on his sweatshirt. Marlon is as quiet and stoic as ever. Will has vanished. I am typing and feeling my eyes drift in and out of focus as I fall asleep at my computer.
I can't go on I must go on I will go on. I can't go on I must go on I will go on. I can't go on I must go on I will go on. I can't go on. I must.
Man Man is rhythmic and steady, and I feel sleep trying to grab me. My body knows it's a great idea, and my mind does too. I just don't want to succumb. I'm yelling at myself for leaving the room and going somewhere else to write, where I mainly ended up playing video games for 45 minutes. Meanwhile, the sun is close to rising and I still am not too motivated to start writing again.
Maybe we'll all keep writing this and finish it in the next few days. Maybe not. Maybe this will fizzle out like Simon's Rock plans tend to. Kat is playing with her shoes with her feet. It seems like it's an unconscious action, which is adorable. Sarah looks confused. Marlon? Still stoic. I'm still falling asleep slowly at my computer, my hands becoming disembodied and simply typing and typing and typing and typing and
Sarah asked a question that's been asked over and over again for the last few hours. We're all too tired to remember anything. Will sprained his ankle. Marlon is only mildly disturbed by this.
I want to lay down I cannot lay down I won't lay down I want to lay down I cannot lay down I won't lay down I want to lay down I cannot lay down I won't lay down I want to lay down I cannot lay down I won't lay down I want to lay down I cannot lay down I won't lay down.
Soda is disgusting. A glass of water with ice would be wonderful, but I don't want to move until I decide to get up and go to sleep. If that'll ever happen. It must at some point.
Man Man sounds as if it's trying to get me to fall asleep. It's slow and rhythmic and daunting.
Nobody looks happy anymore. When we started off we all were making jokes and laughing. Now we're all just disappointed in the whole thing. We'll probably all feel a bit melancholy tomorrow when we see each other in the dining hall. Break out the italian soda, stick a fork in me, Michael's done.
11:35 PM, Sunday, November 4th.
So they finished after I eventually trekked off to bed. I usually toss and turn for a while before I fall asleep, but not last night. I hit the pillow and passed out immediately. I know because I put on a movie to watch as I fell asleep, and I can only remember the opening credits. When people asked me this morning how it was, I answered the way I thought it had went: "It was fun. We didn't finish, but it was fun."
And then Sarah IMs me and tells me we did finish. And I felt like a deserter. I was there for ten of the fourteen hours, but when I left I had lost hope. That's understandable, right? I don't think anyone actually thought at that point that it would be finished. When I found out it had been, I was shocked, too. I went to bed thinking "That was fun, at least we tried!" but now when I think about it, it feels like I should be using 'they' instead of 'we'. I contributed a lot! I think I wrote around 8,000-10,000 words. I don't know. I don't think I care anymore, because maybe it was a lot less about writing tons of stuff and a lot more about the challenge of staying up all night. Or maybe it wasn't about anything. I told Dan last night that I never really saw this as a challenge, just more a fun game to play, try and write a lot tonight! And now that I think about it, it does seem like a challenge, and one that most of the people writing finished and one that I failed. I let them down by not being there to write more and more faster and faster. But fuck, I was falling asleep in my chair. I straight-up dropped my computer at one point, it's not as if I got a little tired and then said "Bye". I did my best, but failed, and now I feel shitty because everyone else kept going and finished after me. Only the strong survive, right? I could go on, I needed to go on, I didn't go on. I didn't go on. I didn't go on. I didn't go on. I didn't go on.
I didn't go on.
November 5th, 4:47 AM
I don't know if I'm still supposed to be writing here. Is the piece done now we've reached so many words? Are we able to quit now?
I can't bring myself to quit, though, because when I went to bed I gave up on the piece. Dan asked me if we'd finish and I told him I was positive we wouldn't. I feel guilty that I made them all keep writing, even though I could have helped them finish.
This isn't really meta-fiction. It's not fiction that's self-aware. It's meta-fictional non-fiction. Or maybe meta-nonfictional fiction. Or a writing diary. IT's writing itself by letting time progress.