An awful jackass just posted a blog about working nights and the effect that changing your wake/sleep cycle has on your attitude and perceptions. AJ was totally right. When I was a kid I worked at a bank and eventually got a management job at a financial services company. I would work from about 4 pm to 1 am. I could never go straight to bed after working so I would eat, unwind, and eventually go to bed around 5 am. When the job first started, things were fucked up. The first two weeks we had our new operations center going, I worked over 100 hours a week. Yes, seriously, 100 hours a week. That means cleaning yourself with the squirt soap in the bathroom and sleeping for 1 ½ hours in your office before going back to work. I was on salary, so no overtime either. I was praying for death so I could get out of the job without quitting or failing.
One morning I went back to my apartment to take a proper shower, get fresh clothes, and sleep in a bed for a few hours. I was dead asleep when I was awoken by somebody banging on my door Bang! Bang! Bang! Now this wasn't knocking that woke me. Somebody was using an appliance of some kind to beat on my door. Oh, shit, I slept too long and now my boss has been banging on my door trying to wake me! I jumped out of bed butt naked and run across the apartment. I looked out of the peephole and there was nobody there. Did I just dream that somebody was banging on my door? I opened the door to stick my head out and look around. As soon as the door is open, I hear Bang! Bang! Bang! on my neighbors door. One of those assholes selling magazine subscriptions to win a trip to Europe is hammering on their door with a metal key chain. I lose it.
"You, motherfucker! What the fuck do you think youre doing! If you ever touch my door like that again, Ill fucking kill you! Do you understand? I'll fucking kill you!" Now remember, I'm crazy eyed, bed headed, butt naked, and literally foaming at the mouth half out of my doorway. I stagger back to my bed and instantly fall asleep for another 45 minutes until I have to go back to my hell job.
That night everything is still fucked up beyond belief. I've got $8/hour employees making more than I because they're taking home beaucoup overtime but they're still starting to quit because its so hellish. Still, I'm going to go home, shower, get fresh clothes, and sleep for 1 hour and 45 minutes before I come back.
I had been asleep for about 45 minutes when I was awakened by a Bang! Bang! Bang! on my door. The asshole is back. I could totally see him coming back to finish canvassing my apartment complex. "Hey, that's the apartment of the guy that yelled at me. Fuck him; I'm going to do it again. Nobody talks to me like that. I'm 18 years old and a badass." The problem is he just doesn't understand what I meant. He has made the assumption that when I said, "I'll kill you" that I was talking about giving him a beating. That wasn't it at all. I was talking about ending his life. I'm not normally a violent person, but under the circumstances, I was going to make an exception.
As I'm flying butt naked across my apartment, gibbering like a freak, I play the whole scenario out in my head. The magazine guy was going to die. The police would arrive, I would get medicated, I would be put under observation, and I would get some rest. This is what temporary insanity was. Somebody who hasn't hit a person in anger since they were little, running out of their apartment butt naked, foaming at the mouth, gibbering like a freak, killing a total stranger bare handed. I feel no remorse for the impending death of this rude stranger. I'm not a moral creature; I'm a force of nature. I'm prepared to chase him several blocks barefoot and naked to end his life if need be. There is no escape for him. No jury in the world will convict me. I'm quite literally temporarily insane.
I get to the door, undo the deadbolt, and jerk the door open. In my haste, I've forgotten to take the chain lock off. Ive got freaky PCP strength from rage and fatigue toxins and rip the entire door jamb off of the wall. RRRRIIIIIIIPPPPPP! There's dry wall falling down everywhere, the door is completely open, the door jamb flopping around on the end of the chain, and I'm standing there with my balls hanging out about to do bloody fucking murder.
It's not the magazine asshole. It's my good buddy Clayton who I havent seen in a while wanting to play golf with me (there is a course across from my apartment that you dont need tee times during the week). He is rapping on my door with his putter. Although I had a bunch of murderous inertia built up, I don't murder my good friend. He could tell what the situation was, because even though Clayton is a big guy, he looks ready to jump off of my balcony into the parking lot to escape golf bag and all.
I dont even say anything to him. I just shut my ruined door as best I can and go back to sleep for 45 minutes until I have to go back to my hell job. No police, no medication, no doctors supervision, and no proper rest. Its strange to be sad because you didnt get the opportunity to murder somebody bare handed.