Bio for a Dating Website

Here is an index of the things in my bedroom: bed (twin), books (assorted, unread) chair, desk, LPs (assorted), painting, phonograph, plant (fern), shelf (two of them), speaker (one: right channel.)

A matryoshka doll sits on the shelf adjacent to my desk. Right now it is 1:47 am, and I am being kept awake by its interior secrecy, but mostly I am just waiting.

I go to bed either at nine pm or three am always. I have taken the time to understand my sleep cycles, and I know that if I fall asleep any other time, I will be in the middle of a REM cycle when my eight am alarm triggers. There is nothing worse than being awakened in the middle of a dream.

My apartment has no heating. To adapt, I’ve lined my ceiling and all the walls of my bedroom with space blankets. It is, for the most part, effective, but discomforting when I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection, which, naturally, is often. If I’m not careful to avoid the corners, I will see three of me in the room at once, which is far too many.

I am guilted by many things, one of which is my daily exhaustion. It is exhausting. I have been trying to eat more regularly. So far, it hasn’t helped much.

The painting in my bedroom was done by a contemporary of mine. It is titled Baggage Claim. It features one sitting at a table and another standing, facing the other at the table. The perspective is that of behind the stander, so that one sees, over the stander’s shoulder, the sitter. Neither the stander nor the sitter are portrayed with a mouth. They also have very long, cone-like noses. I am personally very sentimental about it.

Some of my books have characters that pace back and forth in their bedroom. I try to do the same sometimes, but I have to turn every two steps, so it’s somewhat unyielding. It’s hard to keep my mind off, or on, or whatever pacing is supposed to make it do.

If I open my window on a windy night, my room is filled with a crinkling cacophony. I am hesitant to ever open my window because doing so leads to the possibility that the upper, secondary window will open. When this happens, it takes a quarter-hour to get it to close again. I’ve considered epoxying it shut.

One of my books is structured like a journal. One of the entries is on my birthdate. The entry begins: “Today was awful.”

The belt of my phonograph is worn loose and plays records somewhere below the the standard thirty-three revolutions per minute, but I like the way it sounds. There is only one thing that I listen to, a recording of whale sounds pressed onto a paper-thin square sheet of vinyl. It was a tear-out from an old National Geographic. I play it when I am falling asleep. Then, it sounds like I am underwater.

My plant is called a staghorn fern. It is called that because the tips of its fronds trifurcate into jagged antlers. Rather than typical watering, it prefers to be misted. I mist it on Mondays, in the morning when the light comes in. I enjoy watching the water accumulate atop the green, leathery skin of its leaves. If I look very, very closely, I can see my own iridescent reflection in the droplets.