I was going to post about how we’re all so gosh darn busy we couldn’t post but then dismarum beat me to it. Probably because she’s sometimes Asian.
I have exactly twenty-one minutes until bedtime. I have a bedtime tonight. Yay bedtime. I officially love bedtime at this moment.

What’s been on jane’s mind lately:
Sometimes I get the urge to scream at the top of my lungs. The past month or so I’ve done it while driving, usually at night with the windows rolled down on the highway so the wind will carry it away before it can mix with the blare of the radio, something like Jack’s Mannequin, Sugarcult, or Kill Hannah’s “Rebel Yell.”
Lately the urge has come at the most inopportune times.
Like:
On my latest round of bad luck rebound, I’m walking to class one morning, listening to Adam Weaver sing about how everything is meaningless and I wish I could believe him. He says, “…and I swear I never felt so all alone” as I’m walking through a crowd of people with their own iPods and commercialism shoved in their ears or emblazoned across their sweatshirts or imprinted on the sides of their coffee cups and then the music breaks and I want to stop and hold my fists down at my sides like a three-year-old in a temper tantrum and close my eyes and scream until everyone on campus can hear me and stops to stare. I want to scream until they all understand why I’m screaming. I can see it in my mind—the way they jump, startle, drop their jaws and peek over their Lindsay Lohan glasses to make sure they’re seeing what they think they’re seeing. And then I hear Natalie Portman’s voice in my head saying, “If you can’t laugh at yourself, life’s going to seem a whole lot longer” and I choke back a laugh and grin down at the sidewalk like it and it alone knows my secret and it’s laughing right along with me.
That reminds me of the old fatehaze deviation I’ve often had as my desktop background. I want a huge poster of it to hang on my walls someday.
So I haven’t yet. Screamed, I mean. The urge is getting worse. I can hardly control myself and each time the urge hits, I feel my self-control slipping a little bit more. I can barely open my mouth to yawn or move my tongue to swallow for fear of accidentally screaming. I’m afraid if I started I wouldn’t be able to stop, like in that one super-Freudian dream I had where I screamed until I woke up.
I feel like that entry in the killer’s composition book as read aloud by Morgan Freeman in Seven. Remember the one? Where the killer’s on the subway and accidentally vomits on a stranger and then starts laughing uncontrollably? That complete lack of personal restraint is what I’m afraid of.

Somewhat appropriately, this week’s Six Things Sunday list is: Six Things I Will Probably Do Once I Go Completely Insane.

Other thoughts:
Nobody wears a watch anymore because of the increasing reliance on cell phones.
Scotch tape has a nice smell to it.
I’ve always wanted to go to a Build-A-Bear workshop.
I think I get worse tips when I wear glasses.
I wonder if Justin Timberlake has a sexyback. It’s probably hairy and gross.

On that note, I should be done for now.

Peace, love, and bedtime. Sweet, sweet bedtime.