via RealJock, by Walter Armstrong
I looked at his desk—clean, shiny, papers in neat piles. I looked at him, the art director of a magazine, staring blankly at his wide-screen computer—a typically bright, smiling gay man on the verge of a major meltdown.
"I've got to get a prescription for something to help me sleep. I lie awake for an hour, I wake up two or three times during the night. Then I come to work, a zombie. Exhausted, irritable. Can't function." His face was flushed, and his eyes welled up with tears.
"The rest of my life is falling apart, too. I don't have the energy to go to the gym, to spend time with my boyfriend. And next week the pressure starts up all over again. It just never seems to end."
I shuffled through my deck of condolence clichés wondering which one to play. "Drugs are definitely the answer," I said.
He didn't laugh. "All I need is one good night's sleep," he finally said. "Is that too much to ask?"
Read the rest.
“I can't take it anymore," my friend said when I stuck my head in his office at work. "About 10 minutes ago, I was about to put my head down on the desk and just start crying."
"I've got to get a prescription for something to help me sleep. I lie awake for an hour, I wake up two or three times during the night. Then I come to work, a zombie. Exhausted, irritable. Can't function." His face was flushed, and his eyes welled up with tears.
"The rest of my life is falling apart, too. I don't have the energy to go to the gym, to spend time with my boyfriend. And next week the pressure starts up all over again. It just never seems to end."
I shuffled through my deck of condolence clichés wondering which one to play. "Drugs are definitely the answer," I said.
He didn't laugh. "All I need is one good night's sleep," he finally said. "Is that too much to ask?"
Read the rest.
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