(now that I have a friend doing a degree in Classics, I’m suddenly much less confident making casual references to Greek mythology, considering my knowledge of which stems exclusively from old Percy Jackson books)
Sorry if I’ve disappointed you by not talking about the new Hunger Games film as I hinted at yesterday, but I’ve ended up disappointing myself instead, and anger and self-blame are much more interesting topics for a blog post in my opinion. Essentially, after staying up for more than 30 hours yesterday to rest my sleep schedule, I went to bed at ten in the evening, anticipating a kip of, at most, twelve hours, so I could wake up today in the morning, and with an evening of decent sleep behind me.
Yeah, today I woke up at six in the evening, putting me exactly in the same position I was before I started trying to stay up all night. My whole sleep-deprived day, in which I did activities designed to keep me from falling asleep too early – walking four hours to get to and home from a four-hour football session when I could have taken the tube, an impromptu trip to the cinema that kept me up for another two hours instead of going to bed – has been wasted, and I’ll either have to try to go to sleep like now (ha.) or I’ll have to pull another all-dayer (like an all-nighter but worse) so when I go home for the first time in two months tomorrow I’ll feel like a zombie.
The alternative – going to bed earlier, instead of staying up for longer – is also out of the question, because I need to wrap presents and clean my room (i.e chuck my various piles of dirty clothes into one, less depressing, bin bag of clothes) in preparation for the aforementioned going home for Christmas. My best solution now is to stay up all night (again) and demand that my family wake me up tomorrow morning at a reasonable time, so I can get on with my life; like, I have post-it notes of things to do this Winter, things arranged by activity, and time required to do them! I can’t just ignore those for a few more hours in bed. But having a bed on the ground, instead of on stilts, and a school timetable consisting of ‘get in basically whenever the Hell you feel like it, your attendance isn’t even monitored five days a week), means improv naps are very much a thing, which actually kinda fits my impending lifestyle as a writer who sleeps ten hours a day, moans about not having a proper job thirteen hours a day, then spends one hour being unusually productive in a notebook. But I want to be more structured, and read x things per month, and do y pushups in z days, which is really hard when your days can last anywhere between eight and 32 hours.
And now I’m going home, adding probably rigidity to my schedule, but only for a few weeks at a time. I can deal with the cooking and cleaning of living alone, but the time management is still a bitch.