It's about 11pm now, and I've still got roughly half of a paper to complete before I can surrender myself to sweet, sweet sleep. I know that I'll be up for most of the rest of the night working on this blasted thing (pointless paper if you ask me, but required nonetheless) and even though I've been severely sleep deprived this past week, I somehow am OK with this prospect.

I'd forgetten that vaguely "high" sensation of procrastinating until the last minute to do something, the having to work furiously all night to get it done, and then feeling such an overwelming sensation of relief and satisfaction at knowing that you accomplished the task on time and did a damn good job.

I remember those nights senior year, working through the night on one psych reasearch paper or another. Marissa in the ajoining room doing the same, bitching and moaning and shouting obcenities to each other through our open doors. Taking cigarette breaks by the window in the living room. Fighting off sleep with caffiene and nicotine and laughing at our stupidity for yet again leaving things to the last possible second.

And then that glorious moment of barely making it to class in time, turning in the paper, and then usually turning right back around to climb under the covers and finally give in to the fatigue.

Even now that there's no one here to comiserate with me in my time of blessed misery, I still get a strange joy from knowing that I'm the only one in the house that will be up for the next 5 hours or so, banging away at the keyboard and taking quick breaks for a smoke on the roof.

I'm going to hate myself in the morning, after I turn in my paper and have to drag myself to what will seem like an endless in-service for work. But for now, it's all good.