Getting By

Acetaphetamine, caffeine, and Hershey kisses will surely be the only way I make it through this week. The heat isn't on in my room, so my fingertips are little ice blocks and I sleep in layers. The work's piling on in an exponential way. Christmas can't come soon enough. Why I'm up when the big light outside (that'd be the sun) hasn't risen yet is a mystery. I'm convinced some weird switch in my brain caused this mishap.

An Organized Disaster

She keeps track of time with those fluorescent lines. Watching the days slip by, by, by.

My lovely lovely desk where I work, think and write. The papers are scattered, but have a definite system to them which only I will ever understand.

Off to work, all day and night! Hopefully time for a more in depth post later.

Plums

So, I'm a little too burnt out to write at the moment. It's Saturday night, and I just got in from working a double shift. Sometimes work provides funny anecdotes or tales about people who do ridiculous things, but today went pretty smoothly-- no exciting drama to report. Sorry, memory lane time.
 The restaurant I worked in tonight is situated on a hill above a river. Back in elementary school, my friend Andrea and I would swim down at that spot. We'd ask my mom to bring us there when she worked, so that we could spend the afternoon exploring the rocks, and snacking on french fries when we grew tired.
There's a large patio, part of the restaurant, where customers sit (often to the chagrin of the waitstaff, who don't like carrying heavy pounds of dishes, topped off with odoriferous sauces and meats down a flight of stairs). Andrea and I figured that if we were to scream for help, it might frighten the diners. So instead, we developed a code-word that we would call to one another when we drifted too far. (Plums was the key word, for no reason that I can recall) One time I lost my footing and yelled plums frantically as I was swept downstream, toward piles and piles of rocks. Andrea handed me a huge branch and saved me from my grim, watery fate.
 Most of our childhood adventures turned out that way; we never had an adventure that lacked a code-word, a cry of help, and some sort of dramatic, epic reunion after a near-death experience. My shifts tonight were not quite like the delightful memories of my youth, although they happened within 30 yards of one another. Instead of code-words, I have a time-key code. Cries of help often mean that I've dropped something (usually glassware) And dramatic epic, reunions are what I have with my bed when I get home, especially after an 11 work day.