Sleeping is for Quitters

I'm doing way too much.

I'm lying in an underground bed/couch in Powell Library, at the foot of a metaphysical mountain of work. I am tired - but that is such great understatement that it transcends literary forms and becomes actual, prosecutable, libel. More accurately, I am some combination of the words exhausted and dead. My eyes remain open only by the virtue of the moist direct contact on the surface of my eyeball provided by my contact lenses, and the two glasses of Mountain Dew I had this morning at breakfast, thanks to UCLA dining's strange crusade to provide soda at every single meal.


I'm taking four classes, each of which demands substantial time commitment to preparation and work. Econ requires about 12 hours a week, French 6 hours, History 5 hours of reading, and Math infinity hours of pouring over calculus and my solution's manual. Midterms, daily bruin deadlines, and papers converge on the same day. I haven't slept more than five hours in a week, and I drink Rockstar more than I do water.

fuck this