I’ve accidentally stayed up for 23 hours

(and I’m too aware of my own flaws to want to push myself to the full 24)

Last year my sleep schedule was a wreck, but at least I knew it. I’d go whole weekends without seeing the sun, or go to bed at one in the afternoon so I could get up at nine for a night out; I was a mess, but it was a planned mess, with motives and objectives behind them. Last night, however, was a messy mess. Having slaved away over an essay for the best part of a week and a half, I came home from uni on Tuesday exhausted, and crashed out at about six in the evening; then, as my body was caught halfway between wanting a nap and a proper sleep, I woke up at eleven, where a combination of Football Manager and high blood sugars stopped me from nodding back off.

Long story short, it’s now 10pm the next day, and I’ve spent most of those 24 hours playing Football Manager, writing, or at a scrimmage with the University of Westminster Dragons American football team. All of these things are great fun, and are deserving of their own posts in due course, but have managed to exhaust me logistically, creatively and physically; it’s a trifecta of feeling like shit, and I don’t much like it.

Of course, tomorrow is a new day, and when I get up at seven I’ll be refreshed and ready to tackle all the things I blew off this morning as I recovered from my essay hangover. But right now I’m going to bed.

And it’s 9:48pm.

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