To Death

'I'm working myself to death, quite literally," I think as I puke up another part of my dinner or lunch or maybe the gallon of alcohol I've tested the strength of my body with these last few days and nights or maybe months. I'm now fifteen days into my work week, which apparently is possible, with five days left to go before I'm relieved from my duties and released into the sweet relief of a Sunday morning with yet another hangover.

I swipe the fever from my brow and sit back against the heat of the bathroom radiator. Then I think about opening the window because it's too damn hot and I can't figure out why.

I can't keep going like this, working myself to death in order to get the money I want to go and live a little. It's all too bloody ironic really and it hurts my head and I'm pretty sure I'm also going deaf. All the noise of this city and it's people is alluring but ultimately takes it's toll on a weak and meek little pet like me. 

I've got to rest now, or fear I'll also think myself to death.