It is one of those weeks.

It is one of those weeks.

You know you should be happy; your achievements got the monkeys off you back and you have a few hours to relax. But You can't. Your mind isn't wired that way. My mind isn't wired that way. It never has been. Instead, I will stare at my hands. I'll splay my fingers. And I will rub my tired, red eyes. Slowly, with increasing pressure, until stars explode somewhere in the back of my eyeballs.

I can't sleep. I can't sleep properly. I am so tired when I wake up that it takes me an hour to push myself to sit on the edge of the mattress. The phone is way over on the other side of the house. The various alarms - four? five ? - went off hours ago. I should be rushing for the InstaShower. Instead, I scratch my head, my back, my balls - anything than move towards the bathroom. I desperately want sleep. But I didn't apply for leave. What an idiot move. Sodom-and-Gommorah-level idiocy.

I should eat better. But the thought of even burning toast in the toaster feels me with dread and foreboding. I wish there was Java down the street and that it opened at this unholy hour. Then I could just amble down, get the tabloid, order whatever is ready and pray that the day carries on with such ease. Instead I rush through a tasteless, insipid cup of instant coffee. The only bright thing about the whole ordeal are the sentiments on the mug: Smile! Silver Linings. Thanks, babe.

I know if I were a motorist, motoring along on that stretch of Jogoo Road, I would be convicted ten times over on charges of vehicular manslaughter. So instead I hunch over my quickly depreciating cut-rate Tecno as Eastlands flashes by in a Citi Hoppa driven by the possessed headcases from Kayole or D. I know I should empathise with that driver of the Fit whose just been driven into the divider. Or that one in the Sport (Supercharged) who faces an expensive re-paint job. But I just don't care.

Abraham is in charge downstairs today. That asshole is too cheery for my tastes. And he always insists on enthusiastically super-high-fiving me with his G3-hardened palms. I don't feel like it. I force a smile. We high-five. I slink into the lift even more resentful than when I left the house. I stare at the buttons and I hate them, hate them, hate them. Eighth fucking floor. Hate it, hate it, hate it.

I walk into my office. Of course I am the first one in. Work station where I left it. Files where I left them. I crack open the Accreditation Bill and I hate it even more than I did five weeks ago when I saw it for the first time. I stare off into space when the custodial people come in. Another reason to hate this week. They leave water marks all over my nice, neat work station. Now I have to rub away those marks. Why can't they leave the damn surface alone?

It will be hours before I can call it quits. Hours in which I will spend staring off into space, staring into the blank screen of this horrible desktop, hours I will spend on Twitter, hours that I'll pass in resentful, stressed-out, mind-numbing headaches. Then I can shuffle off home. And do it all again.

It's one of those weeks.