Brooke Hamilton / The Silhouette

Dear Job Hunting,

Thank you for consuming my reading week. It was a pleasure being woken up every morning to  spend time with you. Thank you for showing me what the sunrise looks like, but I think I prefer to get my eight hours of sleep.

As I write this, you are still sending me regular e-mails under the identity of my mother. I've gotten your messages. I'm still getting your messages. My inbox is full of Craiglist postings that are in ALL CAPS and Kijiji adds that say “Make money fast now!” I would have thought there are better ways to earn money than selling window cleaning services door-to-door or insurance over the phone, but you persist.

I understand that I was not born to royalty. I understand that I am an undergraduate Humanities student. I understand that as such I am destined to constantly be on the lookout for gainful employment. And like any “mature adult” (as defined by my lovely mother), I count my blessings every day that I have the opportunity to spend time with you, Job Hunting. You are the cornerstone of capitalism. Of course, you're not as attractive as your sister, Job Having, but for now we're stuck together.

So here's hoping that this visit ends soon – that it turns out to be the kind of visit that was so short and so rewarding, you could have sworn you had fun (yeah, right).

Temporarily Yours,

Jobless

By: Ana Qarri

Dear Sleep,

I’m leaving you.

Don’t exhaust yourself by pretending to be surprised, like you never dreamed this day would come. I know you knew this was coming.

Maybe it was the nights I didn’t spend with you. Maybe it was the mornings I lay down with you just to humour you. Maybe it was the bags under my eyes, becoming more and more commonplace.

As I made my way between friends and parties and last-minute essays, I could feel you trying to pull me closer. I was unconscious of any hurt I caused you. I wanted to stay with you; I do still. I’m not tired of our relationship. I wished there was a compromise we could make, but I know now I was asking for too much.

However, before you start crying and I sit here unsure of how to comfort you, let’s put things into perspective: our relationship was never healthy. Sure, we had our special nights, when it felt like our time together went by faster than second term. We had those few weekends when we were united until the late hours of the afternoon. We have those moments stolen in class, sometimes drawing the disapproving stares of my peers. But between these rare days were periods that stretched, when you and I rarely saw each other. When we did, it wasn’t out of love: it was out of habit.

Sleep, you should know that I find you extremely pleasant. All in all, you’re pretty chill. I still want us to hang out sometimes, preferably on the weekend, preferably when I don’t have other plans.

If you want to talk, I’m here.

It’s not you, it’s actually me.

Regretfully,

Sleep-Deprived