Last night, after a near 48 hours of no sleep, I found myself drowning in a pool of tiredness and unable to swim. I went to bed at ten. Laid there, motionless but not asleep till about eleven thirty when sleep finally felt pity for me and allowed me rest. I wake up almost shocked at the sound. I turn to the direction and in my haze am suddenly relieved to see that it's only a movie playing a little too loudly on our platoons television. I would ask for the new X-files movie to be turned down, and as rudely as watching a movie loudly at one in the morning is, but realized it was our platoon sergeant and the powerless speech of my voice failed me. I wasn't the only awakened by the sounds now annoyingly dragging me into plot, as my bunk mate looked up at me, "isn't this bullshit." he said without detection.
It wasn't for a long while, till the movie ended and considering I had woken up in the middle, probably closer to two thirty. This all with the help of some kind of sleeping pills the new found second attempt at sleep wouldn't and didn't last. Middle of the witching hour I'm abruptly woken up. An essential food, water, and office supply truck has arrived, and it's our duty to download the truck and put things in their respective places. Groggy and very tired the company completes the task within an hour, and I'm back attempting sleep sweating, pills worn off.
I don't find sleep again till sometime after six, and then it's a spot check at the top of the hour every hour as my eye lids part and I peer at my watch. After that I lay in bed all morning praying, hoping and wishing for sleep. Why can't it be long or unbroken? Perhaps had I not been interrupted throughout the night, it would have.
I get up and ready for the day, see the Dodgers won, and grab some food. I get ready and assume my force pro shift, and it's as fun as they always are. I'm allowed to keep my attention else where during it, and I read a wonderfully written book called No Way To Treat A First Lady, which is by the same guy who wrote Thank You For Smoking, Christopher Buckley. Other than the book, which is a terribly fun read, I was consumed with flies who were constantly attacking me. I killed a few, and though I only ever saw one flying around at a time, they kept on coming relentless. My mind started to wander, and I thought maybe this was a Zombie fly and I had to take it's head off. I quickly searched for carcasses of flies I had killed, and was relieved to see them. I dismissed the ridiculous idea of a house fly Zombie apocalypse simply as a condition of insomnia and cabin fever.
I work twelve hours today, six are already down and another five till I start the second shift. I've killed a few flies and read 151 pages of book, and completed 72% of a crossword. These have been regular days over the last 21 or so. For three weeks off in war, I guess I can't complain.
ooooooh my gosh your nuts no one said anything about rain in it
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