I got halfway thorough the shelf before realizing that I was alphabetizing according to a series of sleep-deprived rules that appeared to be based off of the linguistic rules of Venutian slugtortoises, which is to say nonexistent ones. I stared at it dully for a very long moment.

It is impossible, I eventually decided, to work four fifteen-hour days back to back on an average of four hours of sleep a night and be expected to alphabetize with anything approaching even vague accuracy.

So instead I built a little house out of books. A manager passed, regarded my work with an expression that I don’t think I can really describe, then shook his head wordlessly and kept walking. I suspect he was thanking the fickle gods that govern the celestial realm of Dealing With Susies that I wasn’t trying to break onto the roof to see if there was a swimming pool up there or setting grackles loose in the receiving room.

Again.

After some time of literary construction, in a moment of mandalaish philosophizing, I tore the house down and wandered away with an unexpurgatetd Anaiis Nin diary. Subsequent perusal provided me with nothing but support for my previously-held suspicion that Anaiis Nin was a very well-read, very intelligent, pretentious fucking idiot. This made me feel somewhat better, if significantly less inclined to continue reading, so I went back to actually working.

Next weeks’ schedule is a twin to this weeks’, and it may very well make me break down and cry. Monday, get up at five, go to school, go straight to work, get home at eleven, fall into bed around midnight or one, get up the next day at five, wash rinse repeat with the only variation being whether I go to work first, or school.

I could do this back when I was nineteen years old and immortal. Now?

Now it makes the world go grey and fuzzy around the edges, and I forget things, and I drift off in the middle of conversations, and my standard good mood evaporates like morning mist in July. I say precisely what I'm thinking and I start hitting on inanimate objects. 

I begin to understand why the best choice for education is to handle it all when you’re whippersnapperish and spry. Damn kids with their frisbees always comin' onto my lawn.

Possibly the person taking care of arranging the schedule is trying to kill me.But why? I’m nice. Well, niceish.  I do nice things, anyway. I bake people brownies, I help them with their homework, I try to get them to read good books!  I rescue stuffed animals! I’m kind to children and chuckle at babies! I love dogs! When not exhausted beyond comprehension, I leap around doing all that is asked of me and being charming at customers! Why, why would anyone want to kill me via overwork? 

I suppose it’s just my winning personality.

Or...well, the fact that I release grackles into the receiving room. Or maybe word about the shopping cart barricade I built that one time circulated. Possibly the Great Plushie War of 2010 with the Cafe had more lasting effects than I realized...maybe they're all out to kill me now.

Another side effect of sleep deprivation is paranoia, by the way. And on that note, I'm home now and going to bed.