i know it's good when my ears pop.

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dateline: oZoned

20 october 1996 11:45 p.m.

Note to myself. Never trade days with other employees again. A while back I wanted a Thursday off, and I traded with another guy. That was way earlier this year, and I had just figured he'd forgotten when he finally called me on it this week. Since I have weekends off like normal human beings, I guess it was only a matter of time. So, after whining and trying to shuffle things in our heads and eventually writing it down on a napkin, I worked his Saturday shift and for bizarre reasons I can barely follow myself, I also switched his Tuesday for today and barring Armageddon I'll get Wednesday off under the pity clause. In short, by the time I get to my "weekend" on Tuesday, I will have worked eight straight days. Tonight, with one to go, I can barely form complete sentences. Which is a problem. A big problem. The only reason I'm typing this is because I need a break before I pound my head into the monitor. I have a eight page paper due tomorrow. Surprised? I was. I hadn't thought about it much, mostly because I forgot about it entirely until the professor laughed madly about it on Friday (does everyone else really read their syllabi every day?). At present, I've got six, and that's with obnoxiously huge margins, several double-indented excerpts (I just typed "blockquoted" -- that's sad), and 12-point Palatino font (which is considerably wider, I've learned, than good ol' Times). Hmm... I wonder if my prof will count a cover page and the bibliography? Probably not. I've been working on this since Friday night from when I get home 'til I can't focus on the screen. Even passed on the scheduled movie yesterday (much to Derek's whimpery disappointment), a responsible academic decision that amazed even me. The paragraph I'm on now, I've rewritten maybe ten times tonight. All that's left after the last hour of work is the word "however." It sucks. I'm dead. But at least I'll have turned in something, right (a common cry of the desperate student)? And actually, I'm doing well in this class... the professor likes my papers most of the time. Maybe if I look totally out of it when I hand it in (which won't be too hard at this rate), I'll get a little sympathy... ... I've been looking at this cursor for ten minutes. I better come up with an ending, figure out what my thesis is (so sue me, I always write the beginning last), and get to sleep. Derek may just have to feed me lunch intravenously.