It happens every Sunday night from September through June: I can't get to sleep.
Some people are morning people. I hate these people, because by the time you see them arrive at work — rather, they've been there for an hour and a half and you're just hauling your ass in — they've already jogged three miles, had a full breakfast with orange juice they hand-squeezed themselves, planned out their wardrobe for the week, given themselves an audit (just in case the taxman doesn't believe their outrageous tuition bill), and re-alphatized their CD collection.
Meanwhile, I likely spent 15 minutes in the shower trying in vain to rouse myself from a coma, grabbed a pre-squished granola bar on my way out the door, wondered who the hell in their right mind would get up so fucking early of their own volition, and generally cursing my own upright existence.
Unfortunately, you can only get your revenge on these people on Saturday night... you can't even see them because they're probably at home, unfolding their perfectly-made bedspread precisely at 9pm because they're all tuckered-out, while you're over at a friend's place shotgunning the first tallboy of the evening in preparation of "gettin' all tore-up" over the next several hours, eventually falling into that mess of sheets you call a bed somewhere around 5.
Which would you rather be?
The problem with being a creature of the night — which I fully realized in all its glory as a second-year Master's student with an extremely flexible schedule, being ridiculously productive between midnight and 4am and eventually waking up around 10:30 — is that most of the world doesn't run on that schedule. Obviously, I wish it did... not just for myself, but to stick it to all those perky morning people who I've not-so-secretly hated all my life.