At the end of forty-eight

I should be writing this at the end of the day. I still have roughly six hours remaining, after all. And seven profiles, which isn't much by the standards I've learned to embrace over the past eleven months - don't take twenty minutes to finish something, unless it's big.

But I've learned to break those conventions.

And, right now, I feel nothing. Numb? Perhaps. At least I have this freedom to jump while seated on my chair, in an attempt to shake the body that's remained in a sedentary position for so long. I barely stand up for the toilet, and I barely care. I do feel sleepy. I guess when everything around you slows down you realize that you're suffering from burnout, or from a lack of space to maneuver on.

I think I should be asking questions like "what did I do to deserve this?" or "what's with me that's not with them?" but I'm, perhaps, too sleepy to think of those questions. Instead, I'm thinking of where to eat lunch.

It's funny, actually, that I never sought to crash the course until when I had no other option left, when things just got so sucky. That you'll never fit in, and you'll never be treated equally, and you'll always get the blame for something you didn't do. That you're thinking about it again. But it's good material, so I'll go defy what Valerie and Lizette told me in separate instances.

It sucks being in the bottom rung of the ladder, forever out of the loop. And it's a good thing, too.

And your responses...

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