- You talk to yourself a lot.
- A lot more than usual that is.
- Shampoo could just as well have not been invented for all the good it does you now.
- You cherish the quick moments of being able to take fresh air when you go out to throw the rubbish.
- But you are just as happy being holed in your room for days on end because it gives you the illusion of actually completing your work.
- Reading for pleasure is an alien concept
- You are no longer sure what other humans look like.
- You laugh at your own jokes a lot.
- A lot more than usual, that is.
- Your nails are bitten down to the quick from stress.
- You write up meaningless lists just so you have something else to do.
- You have late nights where you type away alone in your room with an instrumental track, a water bottle and empty dishes for company.
- You think about stocking up with at least two more bottles because venturing out into the dark hallways at three a.m. for water refills is not fun when your over-active imagination tells you that the lady from The Ring is climbing out of the television just as you get up, the lady from The Grudge is floating that corner up there, and Death from that episode of Supernatural that you saw is hovering just behind you with his bland expression and his well-pressed suit.
- Curse you, Death. Curse you and your bland, but nonetheless frightening expression.
- You can no longer consider any day beyond deadlines because such things seem outrageous and hazy and totally not in the realm of the possible.
- You also get a little overdramatic.
- A little more than usual, that is.