Sporadic garbage

I felt like writing in class this morning, so I came up with this sporadic garbage (this is true garbage, by the by):

Heavens above, I am TIRED today! That might have something to do with my three and a half hours of sleep last night, but I'm on my second cup of coffee and I haven't had that cheeful burst of caffeine-induced energy yet. I don't suppose I will at this point; only about a fifth of the cup remains and it's not getting any fuller.
I took a number of power naps this morning before leaving the apartment, and of course all of them helped . . . except the last one. I woke up one minute before I had to leave and, contrary to the other power naps, I was exhausted. Suck it up, Cooper, I thought. You brought this upon yourself. And, indeed, I had. Instead of meeting my original 2 AM deadline, I finished my paper at 5 AM and went to bed then. I awoke at 8:30 because I was in desperate need of a shower, then went back to sleep for about fifteen minutes. For me, these very short naps are pure gold. If I can get so much as a minute of sleep these dreary mornings, I am a happy woman. Doesn't take much to please me; just give me a pillow and five minutes on a day like this.
These crows keep following me around and it's almost forboding. Don't get me wrong; crows are beautiful creatures and they're incredibly interesting, but when you've got a good flock of them per tree with five trees surrounding you, you tend to get a little worried. Messengers of death, crows are, and when they hang over your head like a guilty conscience, you'll want to slowly inch away, too.
This morning was hazy and cold. It wasn't hazy in the physical sense . . . rather, it was far from it. The sun was bright and the sky was blue and cloudless, in fact. My head, however, was in quite a fog. I really need to stop with this lack of sleep bullshit, or my head may cave in from weakness. That aside, how would that look? If your head caves in, I mean. I've always wondered if it just starts at the forehead and collapses inward. Not that it matters, anyway. I don't know about you, but I sure don't want to see how that looks.
I work as a prostitute in the summer time. I may not sell my body for sexual gratification, but I sure do sell it for similar humiliation and hard manual labor. Every summer, someone quits rather abruptly and leaves me and my particular partner of that time high and dry. I lose a lot of weight working at that terrible hotel/restaurant/bar/patio/takeout every year because half the time I'm not even allowed to eat. And, before you ask, the pay is shit; it's one dollar above minimum wage. $7.50/hour? Why yes, I am a prostitute, or I'd might as well be for that kind of crap cash at about 40+ hours a week with no overtime! Crossing my fingers for a 50 cent raise this year, however unlikely that is. I suppose if this is the case, we're all just prostitutes, aren't we? We sell our skills and cheapen them in selling them, and after awhile they're not really useful; they're just there.
This book I'm writing in has a plastic flap that chafes terribly. It keeps rubbing against my arm and causing me some bit of pain. I guess that's my hint that I should suck it up and pay attention for awhile, but only fifteen minutes remain in this class. I don't know why I keep writing anyway; this is all terribly random and sporadic garbage, but I suppose it's my way of practice. I never practice, though. I do, and I am doing right now, so I guess I'm not practicing. I don't know. Like those crows are, I am slowly bleakening my own existence and I'm now predicting my own death. I predict I will die tomorrow morning by some means of an ice cream sandwich and a salad fork. We'll see whether or not I'm right.