On Growing Old

Over the past three nights, I've gotten 5, 6, and 2 1/2 hours of sleep. In college, I'd have called that little phenomenon "Every Monday through Wednesday." Now, though, I'm pretty sure that if this keeps up I'll be dead by April.

I turn twenty-eight a week from Monday. I don't think I really believed that there was a difference between twenty-eight and twenty-two back when I was twenty-two. But Oh. My. God. I feel like there are gumbands around my wrists and ankles and every move is a little harder, stretches them a bit more, and at any given moment I might be snapped back the 13 miles into my bed. I know there's a class going on in front of me right now, and other people are participating in it, and I even know what it's called (Professional Responsibility). But that's all I know.

The main culprit is The Libel Show, which will have a much prettier website up in a week or two. I'm the music director, and it's fun and fabulous, and ensures that I don't start my reading (or more likely, watch TV or whatever other stupid stuff I feel like I have to do) until midnight or so. And then there's last night, where I was at a party until 2am, and then, despite being completely (well, undoubtedly legally) sober, decided that IMing until almost 4:30 was a good idea. The moral of this story: I'm some kind of superhuman genius freak who clearly deserves to be paid obscene amounts of money starting in six months or so. Clearly.

In other news, the Twins are playing baseball again and McCain is in the race. Both mundane and virtually meaningless formalities that portend much, much better things to come.