Almost every person I’ve talked to about my move to night shifts has told me I’m crazy. “Why would you do that?” I’m asked, or “Did management change your schedule?” I try to explain that I have no interest in management, nor is my body naturally inclined to wake at 5 AM. Why drag my ass out of bed for a job that requires me to do two hours worth of work in one before management arrives, only to be greeted with the same: “Did you get that done?” and “Why isn’t this there?” Every. Fucking. Day. Morning is for all the psychos who’ve deluded themselves into believing they’re going to make it to the top of the ladder, and soar above us lowly paid refuse on wings made of money (and perfectly normal people who just like morning shifts). No. It’s just not for me, it’s a dead end deal, and for a paycheck that only makes it to Thursday, I’d rather wake at a suitable healthy hour, and start when all those people leave. But best of all is the walk home after: the cool air, and peace that comes from a slumbering neighborhood. Stars smiling at my face. Cars whooshing in the distance like blood running through arteries. Headlights flash like cat’s eyes, streaking off into the darkness. Following dim streets home while sipping my Hefe as a train’s whistle cuts through the concrete kingdom–and people think I’m the one that’s crazy?