Still awake. Had I been out clubbing, this would be the normal hour for retiring, but spending the night pondering the meaning of one's existence puts a rather different slant on it. I just got a call from a co-worker--I like using this highly inappropriate term for a fellow screenwriter--who just landed at CDG with a fresh and invigorating case of jetlag and needed to scold me for staying in what he deemed to be an extravagant hotel. Understand that he is compulsive at the game of one-upmanship and since he was temporarily without the means to afford a better hotel, he had no choice but to book into a room with a view of a Parisian blight that he could use to leverage an argument for his fiscal responsibility.
I mute the television and tune into the body-count channel intending to fall asleep to images of our victory in progress.
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