Survivor's log

I'm sitting in my office. I've been here since 9:30 a.m. I slept at 4 a.m. last night. I just woke up from a nap which started at 2:17 a.m. and ended at 2:40 a.m. when the alarm I had set for my phone went off. That 23-minute nap was one of the best naps I've ever had in my whole life because I needed it so much. I kid you not when I say that while typing madly in front of the computer screen for the fifth hour straight, I closed my eyes in a blink that lasted too long and felt the whole world spin.

The Boss said to give it to him by tonight. I said it would get there late. I don't think he knew how late.

The work. Must. Get. Done. Even if it seems well-nigh impossible, and even though it may appear that my body may fail me long before my will does. Ah, the fragile nature of flesh.

Miles to go before I sleep. I hope I get to sleep, anyway. And go home. (Please?)

As I told Miss C once, it is at times like this that I have caught myself fantasizing briefly but vividly about fainting from lack of food/sleep/oxygen and sustaining a superficial but seemingly gruesome and ultimately non-disfiguring wound to the back of my head from hitting the binding machine on the way down. Then hopefully someone will find me in a bloody little heap on the floor the next morning and I will be forced to be sent home or to the hospital.

Where (oh bliss!) I can SLEEP.

Ooooooooooooooo......sleeeeeeeeeeeep.....

The hair will hide all scars quite nicely and it would be well worth it.

This is really, really bad. Something needs to be done.

UPDATE:

Wrse and worse, it's 4:40, don't think I will go home before 7 a.m. ohmygoooooooodddd.

Read this . I just keep reliving it. Groundhg dayyy. time for nuther nap.

My keyboard is turning rpeety coolours...

UPDATE:

It's now 6:40 a.m. and the sky is gradually beginning to lighten. Oddly, I've become a litle more lucid. My eyes feel like dry marbles rolling in their sockets. This is beginning to feel like a survivor's log, like when they find a desiccated corpse in a cave deep below the earth, fleshless fingers wrapped around some dusty scrap of parchment bearing last words before light and food and air ran out. Except I'll be found frozen, hunched in front of a piece-of-shit computer. No romance in that, however mordbid, at all.

And what is it with fucking people who can't fucking speak English? My client's refusal to use essential words like "the", "a", "of" and "were", and his belief that he is above the use of proper tense has ensured that for the last 12 hours I have been madly poring over every undecipherable sentence in a 132 page document and trying to amend it all so it makes sense. And for god's sakes, if you amend something indicate the fucking changes. Oh, and by the way, it's "Jack's house" not "Jack house". For fuck's sake, it's not freaking funny how many times I've had to add an apostrophe 's'. Every new apostrophe just firms my resolve to push him in front of a taxi. And if I hear humming one .... more....time, that taxi's going to come armed with a pointy hood ormament aimed real low.

Stupid motherfucking job.

When I get home (IF I GET HOME) I am going to run into my room, strip off all my clothes and just dive into unconsciousness. Sodding bleeding stupid job.

UPDATE

Fuck it, it's 8 a.m. Just sent slightly crazed letter to The Boss. Don't care if I sound insane or lazy. I'm going home. I'll be back in about four hours.