Write four lines of prose about: overload.
I'm so done right now. I just finished working my first Friday night bowling alley shift, and I'm reasonably certain it'll be my last. That was way more work than one person should be expected to handle.
I consider myself extremely fortunate to have had such good-natured patrons, as well as a bartender from one of the local pubs in the building. He helped me out a lot, and in return I comped his games. For some reason he still insisted on tipping me for his drinks.
Anyway. I need to get to bed. I have to be back at the gym for my 9 to 5 shift tomorrow. Which is going to begin with all the cleaning up I didn't bother doing in the alley before coming home tonight.
Which is kind of nice, actually. If someone else was working tomorrow I would have felt the need to clean up after myself and then I'd have been lucky to get home before 1 am.
All the signs are present now. Simple math requires a calculator, complicated math is greeted with expletives and nothing more. Any and all questions instantly result in first my face going blank, then my mind.
My system has hit critical overload, it's time to shut things d