Routine

Five a.m. in the morning. Flecks of sunlight can be seen through the window. Forty days and a whole lot of sleepless nights, I'm over it. It's done anyway; I click the button on my screen that says 'Submit' and I'm off to bed.

Nighthound. Functioning during the day is hard enough as it is; dealing with caffeine and ChocolateChipMuffin addiction makes the game tougher. My friends ask if I'm OK. Yeah, I tell them, never been better. Still there's no hiding from sleeping during lectures or blanking out afterwards.

I'm allowing myself to think that eating less will help me solve my problems. One cube of cheese for lunch? Bones are still not visible, perhaps my flab is thick enough to hide them away. I don't have an eating disorder, I tell the bf, I'm just having a rough time with assignments.

The horror. Assignments. Who am I kidding. I'm doing this degree for fucks, just because daddy told me so (literally?). Waking up at 4pm on a Saturday is no excuse for dodging a week full of reports. Then there are the readings and midsemester tests.

How the others do it I don't know. But I'm paranoid. I give up too easily yet force myself too hard. I'm full of contradictions about myself and my work.

The bf has gone out for a morning party. WTF is that. Now they're invading daylight too, these drunk fuckers (no offense). Booze sex and drugs, it's a different world from my sheltered existence (as a loner).

I've got the cat to keep me company, if only he'd stop pestering me for more food or affection.

Dinner time. Bf is not back yet (so it’s very quiet). I'll just have to entertain myself with the telly. Homework on the table will go untouched, rightfully.