And that's why it really hurts

The Wednesday / Thursday workload vortex is pelting me with hail-hard, cigarette-sized words like "ontophenomenological." They screech in, do their gnatty-needly damage, and retreat back into the obscurity from which they came. This is, I suppose, what one gets for saving Aristotle, and Derrida's magisterially impenetrable commentary on Aristotle, for the last minute. Can you die from ten-thousand mosquito bites? A bird is chirping.

A nationally-ranked procrastinator who refuses not to get everything done, I find myself in this situation almost every Thursday morning. (That's totally how I'm going to start my first WM seeking WW light BDSM personal.) I have to be on campus in four hours, and I have a little more than four hours worth of work to do between now and then. Green tea + ginseng bounces off me like bees off a bullet proof vest. All four of my classes -- nine hours in all -- are concentrated within a 27-hour span, from 1 p.m. to 4 p.m. the next day. I'm pretty sure my teachers think I'm high. But I'm just really tired, is all.

I think of Friday as me-time. Time to decompress, relax, unwind -- shake off my usual rail gin hangover. Lose all the luggage I shoved into my short-term memory's overhead compartment. The weekend? It's the weekend. Nobody works on the weekend. Work for the weekend, dummy. That's how the Loverboy song goes, and Loverboy is never wrong. This leaves me, every week, with two days to prepare, at my leisure, for three classes -- and then the sturm und drang blitzkrieg of Wednesday night, which is so abrasive it can only be described in German. Or possibly Japanese, but I don't know any. Sing it.

Hey, you know what's awesome? I live on the 15th floor. And I'm a holy cow! Thanks, boys.

Fuck you, bird.