pinch me, pt II

When my alarm clock went off this morning, I swear I could feel my body in revolt. “No,” it said. “Stop. What is up with this behavior, staying up into the wee hours on measly sustenance — a hot dog here, a granola bar there — in horrid weather, dodging piles of horse shit and sitting and standing and sitting and standing?” My immune system is hanging on by a thread. My nerves are shot to hell, my concentration nonexistent. I can’t work, don’t sleep. My apartment is strewn with piles of gloves, scarves, thermals, Red Sox t-shirts. I don’t give a damn — as the boston.com homepage read yesterday, “Sleep in November.”

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