Cycle

You wake up, either because you need to take a piss ( as has become a bodily morning ritual that you can almost set a clock too ) or because your annoying alarm clock has gone off. After you pee you lay back down. It's cold. You're tired, sleepy, you went to bed way too late, having gotten accustomed to being up til 1am over the weekend, as has become your regular routine. You're head feels heavy - you're that kind of sleep deprived.

You take care of some things. You get up 15 minutes too late to make breakfast. You fuckoff online, and so you end up walking into the office 10 minutes late, but it's okay, there's a meeting and it hasn't started yet. You get lucky, because it turns out you have a lot less work to do today than usual, so you won't be hurting too much from the sleep deprivation, and your back at the office before noon, and home shortly thereafter. Time for a nap on the floor. Take care of some things. Fuck off on the internet. Shower. Eat lunch. Or wait, wasn't it eat lunch and then shower?

You finally manage to get the hell out of your apartment and down to the cafe where you aren't distracted by the Succubus of the World Wide Web. You touch up the page you almost finished on Saturday and then move on to the next one. You still haven't finished that two-page spread because it's a fucking bitch and it's giving you small sensations that are not unlike nausea, especially since there are perspective issues that you've already irreversably fucked up, so you leave it alone and start inking a different page. At least the guy you're sharing a table with is pretty cool, a seemingly successful web retailer, and you have more than a few things to talk about.

Frustratingly, it isn't until after dark that you really start to feel like you're in the zone for getting work done, taking time out to get some concept designs drawn for the commission you picked up over the weekend. Your feet are getting cold as the temperature drops and the building's heat rises away from the floor, weakening your concentration. You're a little annoyed at yourself. You're not going to finish inking the page you started, partly because you kept having conversations with your table-mate, but they were needed, healthy, or else you wouldn't have been susceptible to them.

You're home. You should be in bed, but there's cafe mocha running through your veins, so you're vegging out on the net.

At least you know how to destroy angels.