(diaryland) December 29, 2000 - 06:31:21

I'm going away for two or three or four days. I can't remember exactly how many days. But know this; I'm going away. I'm going to the Falls Festival, a lovely place where there will be many bands I don't like and just a few that I do like playing. I'm very much looking forward to seeing the Vandals play, and they're the chief reason I'm going. I've seen them once before. I'll tell all when I come back.

I watched a show last night about the scary sides to sleep. There was a bit about a man who stayed awake for eight days for charity. This was not good for him. After three days, he was fairly mad, so after eight days, he wasn't in very good nick at all. Apparently, if you stay awake for three days, it alters your personality irreperably. This scares me because I've stayed awake for three days before, plus I was working very hard in that time. I worked really hard for sixty hours. Then I joined Greenpeace (see here). I hadn't hallucinated, but after three days, you apparently do. I know the hippie was real because when I woke up the next day, there was a piece of paper proving that he was real.

What if I'm like a different person because of that incident? I haven't gotten a good night's sleep in at least six months because now that I'm on holiday, I'm so used to staying up till four in the morning that I do out of my own free will (but I've brought it back to one in the morning now, which is nice).

They also had a man who had stayed awake for over six months, and he died, poor guy. He had a genetic predisposition to not get any sleep, and one day, he did just that. He was really tired at the end, so it must have been a huge relief to finally doze off as he died.

Then they had people who had committed murder whilst sleepwalking. There are certain people who tend to sleepwalk, and usually do it when they are small and when they are under stress. I was one of those people who sleepwalked when I was small. I remember the weirdest time, which was when I was five and my family had just moved into a new house. There were boxes behind my bedroom door so you couldn't open it fully and on the first night in there, I distinctly remember going to the loo. I remember getting up and heading up the hallway and all that. The next morning, I went up to get breakfast, and my Nana said something along the lines of, "Woah. What happened?" She told me to look in the mirror, and I did. I had killed my nose. I had bumped into the pointy sticky-out bit of the door and broken my nose and made blood go flying everywhere while I was going to the toilet. I felt no pain at all. Pretty cool, huh?

When I grow up, I hope I don't kill someone in my sleep, though.