I can feel increasing amounts of my brain cells committing suicide the more I write here.

When you work till midnight in a 4x6 booth at a parking garage for a campus in summer session, you grow accustomed to spending time in solitude. Slowly, and in a way that slips beneath the radar of self-awareness, your legs fold pretszel-shaped atop the office chair, your arms open wide in a bear hug stance, and your index fingers and thumbs pinch the air Rafiki style. Iron and Wine soothes the airwaves, incense burns from an unknown source, and levitation becomes a goal to work towards, not a dream. Such has been my case in recent weeks, and although I typically welcome the quiet and stimulating ambiance of my work quarters, there are times I am forced to admit that the seclusion takes a toll on my psyche. I realized this in retrospect tonight, after having successfully thwarted the terroristic efforts of one deviant housefly, attempting to upend the tranquility I so highly cherish as having cultivated within said booth through my steadfast commitment to mediocre work. Ten minutes into a strategic operation to smite the winged vexation from the air, I was finally victorious after landing a devestating blow via duel combo visitor's map/notepad. Instantly commemorating the moment with a hearty fist pump, a swagger-heavy Irish jigg, and a resounding "woot!", I was then interrupted with an "eh hmm...?" from the perplexed old lady who had pulled up amidst my bout of rapture. Turning around to face the window, I was met with a "you shouldn't smoke pot at work" eyebrow raise, and the realization that I really need to find an outlet for my testosterone.

I've decided a good way this could be done is by making my currently banal circumstances more challenging. The reigning idea so far is tying the fingers on my right hand together to make it harder to push the button that lifts the gate. I can almost feel the adrenaline rush already.