twenty-three sixteen

Seven hours and 14 minutes of potential slumber if I can stop my brain having mini giving-out sessions to students who have forgotten their books, or those incessant “Miss, do we skip a line/do we write in pen?/ what page is it? / Is french a language? from whirring about the bloody environs of my skull for long enough to let some REM wash over me.

The black lines have graduated to my ankles.

I’m tired of feeling tired.

I have nothing to report apart from a new watch.

One from the men’s line, if you don’t mind. I would feel a little hypocritical buying a watch for a lady, being someone who never manages to eat anything without wearing half of the ingredients, who finishes class with more marker marks than the bloody whiteboard, and who would put any red-blooded man to shame in a birping contest.
That’s right, half-man, half-beast I art.