Tag: Sleeping

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.

I Need To Stop Getting Up At Two In The Afternoon

(I can’t even complain of having a comfy bed. I have a mattress with my clothes piled on it because I can’t be bothered to sort them into a proper place)

For the last few days, by which I mean ‘week’, I’ve been getting up at ridiculously late times, such as the aforementioned 2pm. This isn’t so much a problem for me as an individual – gods know I’ve been far more nocturnal than this before – but it’s a bit of an issue when I try to interact with other human beings. For instance, in looking for a flat, there are literally three hours in a day where I can go to flats or talk to people about flats.

This has also screwed with a lot of my writing projects; this blog, for instance, often gets updated when my body thinks it’s about time for elevenses, and my target of 2,500 words a day feels incomplete if I don’t write that much by midnight each day, even though that only gives me ten, as opposed to twenty-four, to write.

The upshot of this is that I’ve been far more insular recently. I can’t talk to my friends because it 4am and they’re asleep; I can’t go out with people because I’m going to bed at seven in the morning. And while this isn’t an inherently bad thing – I’m currently learning Rise Against’s 1000 Good Intentions on bass, for instance, it’s only adding to the nagging sense of isolation and social worthlessness that is a normal response to living amongst your friends for a year, before you’re suddenly chucked back home and you feel like you’re thirteen again.

But would I really be more outgoing if I was keeping a more regular sleeping pattern? Considering most of my friends are out of London, and those that are around are working (as I might be in a few weeks, fingers crossed), would I really be able to organise social gatherings with the regularity and intensity I did during the academic year? Hell, we’ll probably live in Stevenage based on how unfathomably expensive London house prices are, so I might have already irreversibly lost the ability to live near and interact with friends on such a regular basis.

That’s the scary part. My life has been split into stages of relative similarity up to this point: I was a primary school kid from 5-11, and relatively the same guy; I was a secondary school kid from 11-18, and was still kinda the same person. But now I’m a third of the way through university, and already the behavioural patterns I set up in that year are being pulled apart and replaced with new ones. University life, as its weird social function as a kind of pseudo-adulthood for kids who can’t quite let go of eating peanut butter sandwiches in their underwear for six straight hours, is a far more malleable lifestyle than anything I’ve encountered thus far. Which is probably why my sleep schedule is shot to Hell.

And with that nice bit of circular writing, drawing my lofty conclusion back to my introduction in a single sentence, I’m going to eat peanut butter sandwiches in my underwear, because I’m an adult.

Six Hours Is A Long Time

(at least it was today)

With the presence of a flag football tournament this weekend, and my sleep schedule that’d already been shot to lured I spent three hours awake today, the rest in bed, asleeop.
And, in info ring me of my current status? My pump’s computer may have just invented an annual holiday for me, one of fatigue and unconsciousnessz

I Made A Terrible Mistake

(admittedly, one of many)

Okay, it’s four in the morning. I’m a bit high so my decision-making’s off. I’m exhausted and am climbing into bed, when I notice my bed smells weird. Not a pleasant, surprising weird, but the sort of weird stench that blows from either the drooling maws of Cerberus, or from an eighteen-year-olds bedsheets when they’ve not been washed in about five months. I knew this was especially bad, because I don’t really have a functional sense of smell, so for me to smell anything means it’s insanely pungent, and for me to smell something bad means it’s odour probably resembles that of a Victorian street urchin coated in marmite.

So, in my sleep-deprived, high-as-frak widsom, I decided to spray my bed and all of its clothes with Lynx. I’m a fan of this relentlessly and unnecessarily masculinised piece of shirking on taking a shower every morning, because it’s smelly enough to operate in place of air freshener, and despite being a rather pleasant odour, it’s also strong enough so that people will immediately know that you’ve sprayed it under your armpits instead of having a proper wash, so it’s its own deterrent against being used too regularly.

And, having just coated my bed in this internationally-recognised ‘I’m a douchebag’ sign, I jumped into bed, wrapped myself in my duvet, and prepared to go to sleep. A whole half a microsecond passed before my nose started burning, my eyes were watering, and I was already bitterly regretting the decision I had made not five minutes ago; I tried to sleep in what was ultimately a Fungus the Bogeyman-style cesspit, and hadn’t realised this was a bad idea.

Now, I’ll give sleeping another go; I’ve spent fifteen minutes writing this post, and the smell is starting to dissipate. But if there isn’t a post tomorrow, assume I’ve been killed by that most deadly of teenage threats: overuse of shitty, expensive deodorant.

Here’s A Quick Post Because I Had A Nap

(and what a nap it was!)

Because I care more about the placebo-like effect of lying in a bed for a two hours more than I do honouring my own promise to write meaningful things for public viewing on a daily basis, mortgaging my potential future as a pretentious semi-professional writer in favour of dreams in which I am alternatively Commander Shepard, two characters from my indefinitely in-progress novels, or Stanley Yelnats, and always end abruptly before I can climb the mountain with Hector, or romance Jack, I have no time to write a better post today.

So there you go – I prefer a state of unconsciousness to interacting with you. Doesn’t that make you feel better?

Frak You, Kronos!

(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 things per month, and do 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.