Have you ever gotten really excited about a project and then realized your laptop's at eight percent? Cleaned your entire room so you can comfortably set into some productivity and then noticed it was time to go to bed?

I feel like there are errant little thoughts that skirt on the edges of my brain, and every time I catch one their glint from far away turns out to be more like the dull shine of lead.

Did you know that lead is naturally very sweet? I've never tasted it myself, at least to my knowledge, but apparently ancient Romans used to put it in their wine to make it sweeter. They called it sapa.

That sounds like something we'd eat today. Maybe with hummus and cheese and berries. Like pretzels or something.

My lamp shade is red. My favorite number is seven (because I'm basic and superstitious like that). Most of the posters on my walls are just ads I've ripped out from magazines.

Does all this collective self-reflection, introspection, intelligence, and personality make me appealing to a college? Probably not. A university's not interested in my ability to compare lead acetate to pretzels or the fact that I like to write my thoughts into a brown paper bag that I subsequently throw at the Internet, only for a few splashes to dot the dapper clothes of whoever happens to be drifting by. Hello Drifters! I'm gonna write some fan fiction instead. At least there my thoughts are far less jumbled.

Inspiration drains away like used water from a tub.

The brightness cradled in my chest fizzles; my muscles slow to an unmotivated gray.

And my inspiration slips away.

My fingers itch to create; my mind wanders into unopened tabs,

But when I lean my head over the toilet, I can't get myself to throw up.

I want to write; I want to think; I want to spew my guts all over the page and show it my mother. i want to apply to college; I want to start a manuscript; I want to smudge the glass of a window twenty feet off the ground. I want to tell him how I feel. I want to hold his hand and kiss his cheek and show him that he's important to me.

Goddammit. I want to do something.

She died without knowing I love her. I mean, it was pretty obvious, for all the time we'd spent together, the dates and the movies and the pets. We'd spent almost two thirds of our lives together. It's almost impossible she didn't know I loved her.

But, all the same, I never said it, aloud, with words or voice or hoarse whispers. I'm trying desperately to remember saying it; it's driving me up the wall. What kind of girlfriend am I to have never said "I love you" in the fifteen years we'd known each other?

What kind of girlfriend was I.

My brain is starting to spiral, as I fall further and further into the catacombs of my mind, destroying any kind of order or sense in trying to find any moment, any small murmur or whisper where I had told her, goddammit, I should have told her. Everyday, every minute I was with her, I should have yelled the words from the balcony at interstate traffic in front of our apartment building, carved it into our door like a fucking talisman to ward off bad luck, said it in the funny accents that made her laugh and then said it for real before kissing her so hard on the mouth she wouldn't be able to breathe with how much I loved her.

Well, the not being able to breathe part is accurate at least. Now it is, anyways.

Somewhere in me, I know she knew. She said it all the goddamn time, and while I never said it back out loud, I did do a hundred things that must have showed her I loved her. Buying her favorite jam and putting it on her toast after a particularly rough night. Rubbing her feet during rainstorms. Paying the Netflix bill. Stuff like that. Small, ordinary stuff that I wouldn't do for anyone else in the world except for maybe my family, and only then with some severe whining.

I never whined for her. God, I would have walked over coals barefoot just for a dinner date with her.

I would certainly do that now, and more. But it doesn't matter what I'd do for her now, because she no longer has a "now." The only "now" she has is, "Oh yeah, her? She's dead now." I would give her my "now" in a heartbeat, if I didn't so selfishly want to keep her away from this kind of pain.

Maybe it wouldn't have been as bad for her, if the situation were reversed. She knew that I knew she loved me. That was a solid, irreversible fact. Or maybe that just would have made it harder.

God, I hope she knew.

"Lifeguard" is, for the intents and purposes assigned to me by my employee contract, a bit of a misleading term. For the job I am actually paid to do, a title like "pool custodian" or "aquatic janitor" would be more appropriate, if still glitzier than the job should actually permit. I clean the pool and the area that surrounds it. I sit in a chair and stare at people trying to enjoy their day. That's it. That's all. That's everything. For four hours after school on Thursday and Friday (and every other weekend), I waste my time and my employers' money. And this is just the off-season. During the summer I spend about a third of the day at work. I'll drive the twenty minutes from Page High School to Prairie Life Fitness, snag a snack at either the in-house cafe or a nearby fast food eatery, change into my uniform, and sit in my chair. Not even the iconic, white-wood lifeguard stand that sits halfway down the pool. One of the dinky lawn chair-esque things that sits in front of the employees' box, shucked in the corner. Admittedly, the view from that corner is better than from the stand.

The most remarkable thing about working at PLF is really how little work I do. There are other interesting things I've learned, like just how long it takes for a pool to get gunked up again after you've vacuumed (a day tops) or how to ask if you can leave work early (politely or not at all -- sometimes you can just go). I've learned how to balance superiors (agree with both of them and move on) and how to fold a bucketload of towels in thirty minutes (twice vertically and then by thirds and with a friend to race at your side). I've learned where to stash my stinky extra uniform (in Kit's drawer since he doesn't work here anymore) and where Caitlin stashes candy she doesn't want the guys to get their hands on (second drawer, behind the employee files). I've learned how to vacuum, how to run barefoot on a slick tile floor, and how to be a good employee first and a friend second. I've also learned that, in the long run, none of the little things I do are really enough and that I don't nearly earn the money I make. Though at least I've earned it more than the other guards.

The thing about a Type B pool is that I don't have to be on deck at all times. The pool can continue to operate without a certified lifeguard present as long as there are signs everywhere proclaiming "NO LIFEGUARD ON DUTY." My boss, Caitlin, only started hiring guards once the Aquatics Department's budget was cushy enough to afford us and the necessary equipment, and, should the budget ever shrink, we'll probably be the first to go. Since I'm the only guard that will actually take initiative and scrub tiles with bleach or sweep sand out of the hot tubs, clean windows or scoop leaves out of the outdoor pool when it's sixty degrees out and I have no jacket, rip open seventy-five bags of toys for the treasure box or help set up a birthday party and then stay extra (SANS TIP) to guard it, I'll probably stick around the longest. Where other guards spend their four plus hours flirting and tweeting, holed up in the office, I plunge myself into the hairy, gunky skimmers and paraphernalia that come together to make a blissfully nasty pool.

Actually, that makes me sound more heroic and hard-working than I really am. The days I vacuum and scrub tiles are somewhat rare, as it's more of a weekly necessity than a daily one. I'm close friends with all the coaches and instructors, so I spend time with them, and I make myself useful where I can, like folding towels at the front desk (which I strictly do not have to do but do anyways because I'm lonely and bored and the pool's low on towels), but other than that I spend a lot of time in the office, too. I flirt with the cafe staff; I mess around on my phone; I forget to check chemicals more often than I remember. Sometimes I'll show up late, and other times I'll leave a little too early. I'm supposed to wear shoes outside of the pool area, but I wholeheartedly defy that rule and just hide my feet from Laurie (the General Manager). I'm not as good of a worker as I or the rest of the staff seem to think. Then again, I suppose they have fairly low standards, seeing as they work with teenagers. 

Ugh. My inflated ego is definitely suffering from this. My need for praise is in constant conflict with my laziness, and all the praise and warnings swirl in my mind until I'm not sure which behaviors are commendable. I fond that, no matter what anyone says about me, I am neither satisfied nor deserving. Close examination of myself has forced me to conclude that I NEVER WANT TO SELF-EVALUATE EVER AGAIN. I am at once humble and self-centered and the conflict has most certainly bled into my life at PLF.

Sometimes people will come ask me questions, far too much respect on their faces, and I will answer with an overly-bright and doughy grin, the kind an All-American teenager with an unhealthy level of optimism and naivety passes like Valentines. the answers are somewhat subpar, considering that the questions would be better posed to the Aquatics Manager, but patrons walk away with a smile and a sincere "thank-you" often enough. I whittle away my time with menial, borderline useless tasks, though to my extremely anal sensibilities they do not feel that way. Something as minor as a noodle out of place will send me to the corners of the pool to fix it, lest I develop an eye twitch. I once dove in to rescue a diving ring from the middle of the water. My many days as a part-time Type B pool guard have forced me to confront certain aspects about myself and how society treats its housekeepers. So is the way of the world, I think as I lug around a pile of soaking wet noodles left behind by one of the instructors. Be willing to clean up the pool; be willing to clean up the world. 

I don't mind cleaning up. I mind that my cleaning up everything has made my friends, coworkers and patrons so abundantly lazy and overly-dependent on meager "lifeguard" skills. It frustrates me that no other guard, no other person, takes kickboard organization as seriously as I do. Sloppy kickboards are the gateway to a sloppy pool, a sloppy lifestyle, people! You let one thing go and then suddenly everything is chaos and there are huge clumps of hair just clogging up the play area and the lessons aren't scheduled and no one gets paid and you'll never accomplish anything and--