Fucking insomnia.
It’s that time of year again. Formal is Saturday night in Chicago, and you know what that means: I had to find a date. I’m taking Chelle. A splendid time is guaranteed for all, even though her boyfriend comes back from Iraq on Monday or so. And I’ll probably spend most of the night holding back her hair. And when we’re both drunk I’ll probably be tempted to try something. The silver lining is that it’s pretty much guaranteed to be better than last year, and I’m hanging out with Irina on Saturday, so that will be awesome. Can you say deep dish pizza and the Field Museum? Yes, that’s English you’re speaking, and no, you aren’t English, you’re American. You acquired your incredible language skills through Muzzy.
The only person with keys to the boiler room is out of town. It’s 80 frickin’ degrees in here.
Just when I thought all hope was lost and I was getting ready to call Wal-Mart, someone from Oak Ridge sent me an email and let me know that they’re looking at my application. It’s hard to imagine that I would be the most qualified candidate, but it’s nice to know that they didn’t circular-file that thing. I just need to find a way to let people know how awesome I am, like my mom does.
As I sit here watching the sky turn from gray to lighter gray, I wonder if maybe I sleep less than all those people who do homework nonstop and brag about how little they sleep. It’s like a badge of honor for some people and I just want to slap them and tell them to go sleep for eight hours and damn well enjoy it.
Fucking insomnia.
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