Spite and Pessimism

So after only two weeks of being somewhat more of a regular person the graveyard calls me back. No, I don't mean that in a metaphoric yearning sort of way. It called me at work and said "Get your ass back to the graveyard starting Sunday."
Bastards.

One of the first things that I learned during this little working- during-human-hours experiment is that saying "Whoa, it's noon I'd better crash" seems a lot cooler than "Gosh, it's almost ten PM, time for bed!" Even when it does mean nearly the exact same thing to your comparative sleep and work schedules at the time.

That, and the fact that the people whose job it is to plan things seem to be the least capable of seeing past the end of their own noses. Or as one of my co-workers pointed out, past their own assholes.

Now I have a truncated weekend in which to readjust my cycle back to where I get off work at the time that I'm getting up for work right now. No problem. It's not like I was healthy to start with. I also have a truncated weekend in which to pick up a Sunday newspaper with the bigger classifieds section. And a lottery ticket.

Of course, there was a Career Opportunity offered! An opportunity to be on an even crappier, half-assed schedule, make less money for more difficult work, but of course have the benefit of additional stress, and people yelling at me about how the company that screwed me over screwed them over, at which point I'd be supposed to defend aforementioned company.
Ingrates.

On the upside, one of the things I asked myself for Christmas this year was the motivation and drive to spend more time writing, the willpower needed to work on my fiction until I'm routinely publishable, ultimately profitable. Days like today help me find that motivation.

After all, I got paid for writing this.
Well at least, I got paid for the time during which I wrote it. Whatever.