tap, tap, tap.

In four days, I was able to finish three articles.

The first one was a writing assignment so unceremoniously dumped on to my lap and for which I made a big, grumbling fuss about, one-hour deadline, and all, but oh, the satisfaction at having won against the clock was almost as sweet as the nod of satisfaction from he-who-gave-me-the-task.

I had a day each to finish the other two, but, of course, me being the way I am, I waited until the last three hours to work on both, and couldn't believe how great a master pressure can be, for I managed to alt-tab, type, pause, type, alt-tab (repeat X number of times) between the two word files, and come up with, I should say, still decent write-ups. I enjoyed writing the profile most. People are an interesting subject to study, and tap the letters on one's keyboard for.

I'm making lots of progress with the novel I'm reading, too, so this should be a good weekend.

But now, for some shut-eye. I hope to still be in a reading mood when I wake up.

This is me, still.

When I bristle, my forehead still distorts itself into impossible lines.
When I feel the lines carving themselves into my forehead, a friend always still manages to smooth them out.
When twilight comes, the impending dark still doesn't present itself to me as something innocuous.
When I think of hunger, I still fumble for noodles.
When it gets too cold, my skin still breaks out into rashes.
When there is a note that seems especially daunting, I still don't try to reach it.
When the cash in my wallet starts to thin out, I still manage to pluck out a bill and spend it on fruit shake.
When I get really angry, I still find my throat constricting itself into a tight little knot.
When I lose my way, I still always find my way back home.
When I find myself back home, I always still turn all the lights on.
When sleep eludes me, I still turn to Joni Mitchell for solace.
When Joni Mitchell fails to lull me, Miles Davis still always saves the day.
When the coffee gets cold, I still throw it away.
When I throw cold coffee away, I still feel sorry for having to throw it away.
When I finally decide to watch a movie, something or another still somehow manages to keep me from it.
When I get bored, I still find my gaze landing on my books.
When I open a book to read, I still fall asleep on the seventh page.
When my eyes begin to droop, I still could never remember where I put the bookmark.
When I fail to find a bookmark, I still find myself dog-earring the page I'm about to fall asleep on.