All Work and No Play keeps Ness from Blogging

So, I've been working full time for five months.
Today, I've started my reduced hours.
It feels weird, and I haven't got anything done.
Considering I've got a back log of things to do, this really isn't a good thing.

The past five months have been strange.
I've had no break.
Working 14 hours a day, 7 days a week really is something that I wish everyone would experience.
You're always looking for your next break.
You forget about lunch and dinner, and instead fantasise about biscuits, carrots and other nibbles.
You pride yourself on being able to back up files on to an external hardrive, yet, you still avoid analysing those surveys that are now gathering dust.

It's strange.

You're organised, but things get past you.
Day to day things run so smoothly, when everything else is falling apart.
You can't remember which meeting's minutes you have to type up next, so you just leave them all in your to do pile.
...and when the pile gets too big, you shove it under your desk and create another pile.

Your life becomes work.
You don't sleep... for days, weeks, months.
You stop being awake.
You're in a constant state of fuzziness.

You get to work early so you can print off things ready for the day...
You busy yourself with your administrative tasks, and when the office, the fun begins.
The meetings.
Three hours a night of absolute PakiNess.
Doesn't matter what organisation, event, project it is.
It's the same faces, same catchphrases, same food.
Rice and Curry or Pizzas.
Some days if you're lucky, the hosts might forget and go for a mad dash in Tesco and you get cream doughnuts.
Nothing is ever done at these meetings.
They just need you to attend and waste away your hours.
This is how I spend my weeknights.

Apart from Fridays.
Fridays are Yoga Days.
I have my full lunch in the day time, and spend the day preparing for the strenuous routines that the instructor will put us through that evening.

I used to have Belly Dancing evenings, too.
But they were sacrificed, for my Islamic School Lessons.
Yes.
I teach at an Islamic School.
The very thoughts and ideas that I hate with a passion, I am feeding to children in KS1.
In my eyes, I am Evil.
In the school's eyes, I am Evil.

I remember the story about the Crow and the PeaCocks.
I am not a Crow.
...but I have to pretend.

Ah, the joys of working in the community.
I have become a well known face.
A much loved person - this I say without any cockiness at all.
It would be impossible to keep anything from the city, now.

Yet, there are only three people in the city who know of my well kept secret.
No, not about Quasimodo.
The other secret.
The dangerous one.
The religion secret.

Imagine how it would go down, now, if I came out clean?
Disaster.
I'd lose my fan base.

I really do have to be "good".
...so, this Islamic School stint is good.
It lets people think that I am a "good" girl.
So, what, I don't wear Hijaab, and I don't give my salaam to you every five minutes... I'm not a naughty girl, am I?

Sometimes, I wonder whether I could make it in the world of Thesbianism.
Is that even a word?
My eyes have been able to water at the drop of a hat.
My skin can become pale at my every whim.
My sorrow can be masked by my outgoing persona... and my bubbly persona can be erased with frowns and make-belief anger.
Could even the leading actors and actresses do the kind of shit that I come up with on a daily basis?
I think not.

Though, I think I need to practise more on how to act when dealing with emotions and attachment.
Yes.
Quasi's seen real tears, and real smiles.
He's heard real disappointment and real hopes.
Which is why I'm glad that we don't speak as much as we used to.

He's busy, and I'm busy.
We can never catch each other.
Which is good.
I can wean myself off him.

...but it's meant that I've not played or has an orgasm since the end of April.
I've now learnt the true meaning of Frustration.
I walk around with sopping panties almost everyday.
Thank Fuck that it's been warm enough to wear skirts.
The smallest thing sets me off, and all I can do is think about having Quasimodo between my legs again.
More often than not, I fear that I'll never experience it again.
...and I try my hardest to cling on to memories.
But, I'm a crazy bat with memory issues.

When you wake up in the middle of the night, and find your bullet on your belly, still vibrating, you experience a new kind of low.
Have things got so bad... so hectic... so pushed for time that you can't even start a Play Time without knocking out?