Insolent insomnia speakzzz

All I seem to be doing is mope over One hundred years of solitude - the wasted lives, pestilential passion, the lunacy of sainthood, the tormenting flashes of focus consistently leaving one to rot in the bog eventually, the strength of being removed from the all and the pity it evokes in smug dimwitted outsiders and the absolute irrelvance of it to the loner, the bury-you-alive capacity of vanity, times twist in bulging veins of gelatinous bags of stumbling aged flesh, the janus mask of memory; and listening to soppy songs like last kiss and reading love notes on networking sites...real lovely love notes exchanged tween two real people. I got Chaka Khan, temporarily stranded without vodka and no Colin Firth in the offing. I can't choose like you Bridget. Catch 22! What ya do when you the catch??? Sleep...I guess.