The Insomnia Diaries: Week 5
It’s 4.18 am. My neighbour has just beat another tattoo on our adjoining wall, telling me to shut the hell up with the guitar playing and let him get some sleep. Third time tonight, if memory serves. I have a translation to do by Wednesday, along with a raft of coursework my erstwhile group mates will likely blank out on again, bless them, but the real trial of insomnia is that you’re not in a state of sufficient wakefulness where you’re actually able to produce anything worthwhile. It’s just your brain leaking a primal desire for blessed unconsciousness, along with all the neurochemical housekeeping you’re supposed to get done while lounging on a golden deckchair under the sunny skies of the land of Nod.
While I know for a fact that he doesn’t feel the same way, I don’t actually hate my neighbour. True, while writing this I’m actually googling for a subsonic frequency generator I can attach to the wall and gradually tune till I reach the sweet spot where his eyeballs explode, but again that’s the scratching, hamster-in-a-wheel mania of looking for something to do, rather than any real, you know, malice.
Mostly.
Sod this, I’m going for a cig.
But the worst part of it all is knowing that in mere hours I’m going to have to rouse myself and go to work. And since the debacle, it’s not been a fun place. I’ve been switched to translation, which I could deal with if there were any articles beyond regurgitated press release to do; I’ve been stripped of my website editing rights and watched the site design devolve into a piece of grade-schooler’s IT homework, and I shut my new boss’s phone in a drawer after it emitted one of its trademark screams for its owner’s attention one too many times.
(Two, and it goes out the window, I swear.)
I told Roscoe once I’d rather have a test of ability than a test of patience. He thought the latter would be good for me.
It’s not.
/endcommunication
Tags: insomnia, life, the descent into madness