I am back in PPD, and I am cranky. I have been awake since five o'clock this morning; we are packed, sardine-like, into a room in the west wing of the compound. My days consist of lying in bed for four hours while technicians run ECGs and draw blood every half hour. I am not allowed to stand up. I am required to lie supine for ten minutes of every hour like a corpse.

For this I am being paid almost four-thousand dollars. I don't want to complain about the amount of money I am being paid for this ridiculous thing, but I will confess to being a little bit annoyed at the principle behind this whole affair.

I spent two and a half months working my ass off on tour, playing my heart out every night to audiences that ranged from downright hostile to wildly enthusiastic, giving everything I had to each performance, and I emerged from the experience hundreds of dollars in debt.

Here, I lie on my ass for twelve hours a day and get stuck like a pincushion with my headphones on, and I am being made fabulously wealthy.

Complaining about these things is unseemly, but it is definitely a drag, to realize that society has a very, very different idea about what things you are capable of are valuable.

But who has time to dwell on that? I have an ECG in six minutes. I must be supine in preparation. I am earning my thousands. I am contributing to society.

Do not think that because I have a girlfriend now I will be full of light. Don't let the clothes fool you -- it's still fuckin' me.

Stark boredom. I am not on any interesting experimental drugs. I am on boring experimental drugs. They stretch my attention span, but offer me nothing with which to divert that attention. I am nearly finished with Thomas Frank's newest book. I am using my time wisely, but I still know, in my heart, that I am being beaten.

There are forty people in this room. There are only two rooms in this wing of the compound. One of them doubles as a dorm and living area, the other is the cafeteria and TV room. Both of those are misnomers -- each room has multiple televisions. I can not sit anywhere without being very near a television.

They watched a Star Trek marathon this morning. Patrick Stewart was pissed about something, but not as pissed as Avery Brooks. They sought justice among the stars, and they found it. The virgins in the room were pleased, their lengthy attention spans sated.

After the fourth episode of Star Trek a scuffle ensued; one of my fellow labrats wanted to watch tennis. It came to a vote; I was to cast the deciding ballot but I abstained by putting my headphones on. I have been listening to nothing but Miles Davis and Mastodon, deafening myself with brilliance. I wrote the first fifteen pages of a screenplay this afternoon just to whittle away the time.

Donner was in a research study at PPD competitor Cedra earlier this week. I thought that was cool. Like touring the East Coast while he's touring the West. Like being sent to the Battle of the Bulge while he's just fought on Normandy Beach. I must elevate these things to delusional terms. I am so fucking bored.

The dollar amount of the study runs through my head, reminding me that it's gonna be worth it. Lunch today was a large chicken fajita. Dinner tonight is spaghetti. These are the only good things there are in here. The Star Trek virgins have been playing Axis and Allies.

The next weekend of this study is my final one; I'll also have received enough pay to purchase a new laptop, which will ostensibly provide me with enough entertainment to breeze through that weekend. Until then, I'm fightin' the bear.

Answer these questions because I am bored and checking the answers will pass time.

1. When did you first "friend" me?

2. Why did you first "friend" me?

3. What posts of mine do you like to read the best?

4. What would you like me to write about that I don't?

5. Do you think we would be friends in real life?

6. How often do you read my journal?

7. What do we have in common?

8. Will you post this in your journal so I can answer?

9. If I were a fictional character, who would I be?