What's a bored girl to do?

    

Now that I'm done with my thesis, I'm trying to figure out what the hell to do with my time. (Yeah, I know. I just finished yesterday but I get bored very, very quickly.) This led me to wonder what the hell it was I used to do with my time before I had a thesis to write. Before I was in graduate school. 

Let's see... That would have been two years ago...

Well, for one, I was employed. I was working as an elementary art teacher, so that occupied most of my time. What with all the lesson planning and art show organizing and what not.

I was living in Northern New York in a house with three four five guys. In case you're no good at math, that means there were a total of six of us living in a four bedroom house. Only four of us paid rent.

The fifth frequently put in money for the utilities, which was cool. He often bought food for the house too, which was also cool. Probably because we allowed him to "conduct business" out of our house.

The sixth was always the DD and would drive our drunk asses around at all hours of the night, which was awesome and very convenient. He often bought food for the house as well, which was also awesome and very convenient.

We played a lot of beer bong in the basement and Three Man in the second living room rec room fifth bedroom. There were parties at our house quite frequently, which wasn't always cool. There were also cops showing up at our house quite frequently, which wasn't awesome or convenient. It was funny though, the neighbors would call the cops to our house when there were only two or three of us at the house, and we weren't doing anything wrong, which made our neighbors look like real assholes. The cops hated them. This amused us.

Our lease wasn't renewed, which had less to do with the parties and the cops and more to do with ridiculous zoning codes that forbid more than three non-blood relatives to live in the same housing unit. The neighbors reported our landlords for this violation the day we moved in. Our neighbors were all doctors and college professors. Apparently we weren't welcome in the neighborhood. We stayed for almost a year and then parted ways. 

After that, I moved in with four guys and one two girls. For you math challenged individuals, that would be a total of seven of us in a four bedroom house. A couple of months after that I started graduate school and then all hell broke loose. But that's a story for another day.

So, what was it that I did in my free time? 

I guess a drank a lot. I lounged around on the weekends, hungover, with friends, watching movies and eating greasy food.

Now that I think about it, I guess I didn't really do a whole lot of anything. At least nothing constructive nor productive. I suppose that's why I eventually extricated myself from that way of life.

Now that I live on my own (well, aside from the six other people that live in my house, but they don't count since none of us actually socialize together), I have all this free time to myself. What on earth am I going to do with all this time?

Maybe I'll work on some art. Maybe I'll do some job hunting. Maybe I'll go road tripping and visit far away family and friends. Maybe I'll try making local friends.

Who knows? I guess the possibilities are endless, huh?

I have news.

   
The thesis has been submitted.

I have a job interview next week.

I am HAPPY!!!

There will be beer and sushi and celebrating this weekend.

That is all.

The beets beat boys and zombies any day. Well, at least they do today.

 

This morning I was all set to blog about the unfairness of job opportunities available to men and the lack of job opportunities available to women and how unfair it is when men expect their women to just tag along with them whenever their jobs take them to far off places.

But then I finished my shower and lost all my brilliance on that topic.

Then I started blogging about how ZOMBIES DON'T USE GUNS after reading a comment left on The Sassy Curmudgeon's post today. 

But I quickly ran out of steam on that one.

Then I decided to heat up some soup for lunch, and as I was stirring a dollop of Greek yogurt into my soup, I remembered that I had the BEST borscht this weekend and decided to write about that.

Now, my exposure to borscht hasn't been that extensive, but extensive enough to know that I really, really like it, which is shocking because I used to be a super, hyper-picky person who wouldn't eat anything. Especially anything the color of this dude's shirt...

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Yeah, I don't know why anyone in the clergy would want to wear a shirt this color, but apparently they would. And when I searched for things the color of red-purple, this was the most interesting pic that popped up.

At any rate, I ate at this really cool restaurant this past weekend, the Russia House. 

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I sat at that table under the window, next to the door. The tables were very long and I felt very far away from my companion, which made conversation difficult, but since the conversation wasn't all that fabulous, that was kind of (kind of) okay. Not that conversation was really feasible anyway since there was a small group of people (3 or 4) having really LOUD conversations at the table behind us.

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But the borscht was really good. Borscht is usually a vegetarian dish, so I was surprised when I began eating it and discovered beef brisket. This may be the reason why it was the BEST BORSCHT EVER. Isn't it pretty? This picture doesn't really do it justice.

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Oh, and for dinner I had the Shashlik, which was described as, "Baltika-Honey Marinated Pork Tenderloin, Grilled and served atop a Saffron Rice Plov with Wilted Mustard Greens and Purple Mustard Sauce". 

I'm not sure why I ordered it since I hate mustard. It was okay. Very overcooked and dry. I think I was distracted by the shitty conversation and while I really wanted to enjoy the experience, I also just wanted it over as soon as possible. Plus, most of the dishes involved lamb or duck, both of which I have no desire to put past my lips.

The beer was okay. I had Baltika Golden Lager #5. It's pretty hard to screw up beer though. Actually, scratch that. I have had some really, really bad beer before.

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But the borscht was fabulous. This post, however, sucks. Sorry.

I ♥ Helena.

 

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My love affair with Helena Bonham Carter began with her performance in Hamlet as Ophelia. She played crazy so well.

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But it was her role in Merlin that really had me captivated. Once again, she portrayed crazy really well with her performance as Morgan Le Fey. Crazy aside, I really fell for her style in this movie. I still want hair like hers. Seriously, I do. 

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And then, of course, there was Fight Club. In which she KICKED ASS!

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And then I lost track of her for awhile. (Aside from Planet of the Apes, because who can love the style of an ape?) And then Big Fish came along, and Helena did phenomenally well as Jenny and the Witch.

    

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Fast forward past Corpse Bride and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, (I know she was in other movies, but I didn't watch any of them, so they don't count) and we have the Harry Potter series, where, once again, Helena plays crazy and witch very well, and I love her name, Bellatrix.

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And let's not forget one of my all-time favorites, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street. Her portrayal of Mrs. Lovett is fantastic. (Did I mention she does crazy REALLY well?)

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One of these days I will get around to watching Alice in Wonderland. I heard Helena steals the show as the Red Queen.

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And you know what? As much as people criticize her personal style (and trust me, they do!), I really kind of like it.

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Retro-Cool

      

I have concluded that I want an all-white kitchen with splashes of color. You know, when I finally decide to settle in somewhere. I think a white kitchen would be the perfect canvas for someone like me. Someone who constantly yearns for change. I'm currently obsessed with three VERY retro colors, and I'm dying to put them in my (future) kitchen...

AVOCADO!!!

I have these bowls, but one is busted. So sad.

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TURQUOISE!!!

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RED-ORANGE!!!

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I'm imagining something like this (but with a splash of red-orange)...

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And I ♥ the idea of painting the interior of the kitchen cabinets. Like this...

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And I absolutely, positively HAVE to have these in my kitchen. I realize this would be a pretty big commitment, but I cannot express how much I want these...

They're available in many, awesome, retro colors. I'm not entirely sold on the avocado; the color possibilities are endless! Sweet!

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(I think my ceramic ducks would fit in perfectly!)

(Ooh! And my ceramic Lincoln Logs too! I'm super-psyched!)

Sometimes the party takes you places that you didn't really plan on going*

                      

Which is exactly why I will not be writing about my weekend shenanigans. Instead I will give you a quick synopsis:

There were vegan cookies and "foul bowels."** 
There was good food, bad conversation and awkwardness. 

There were old friends, new friends and Rock Band. 

There were bad movies, bad hangovers and bad pizza. 

There were shots of whiskey, glasses of wine and Russian beer. 

There was a pretty skirt, a pretty dress and dirty boots.
There was birthday cake, bruschetta and endive.

There were all-time new lows reached, new experiences had and old habits revisited. 

There was no thesis writing. 

There were tears (but not many).

There were bumps and bruises, scrapes and muscle soreness.

There was a ¢25 Blizzard from Dairy Queen®.

          

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* Brought to you by "Thrash Unreal" by Against Me! (Source)
** Thanks for my new fave phrase, Krissy Sue!

Happy Weekend!

    
I'm going to be MIA this weekend.

Why?

Well, for a few reasons...

1. I currently have some sort of sickness ripping it's way through my body. I don't know what the cause is, but I suspect it's Karma, paying me back for this post.
2. I have a hot date tonight at a fancy restaurant.
3. I have a 30th birthday party to attend tomorrow.
4. I'm still working on my thesis, editing and writing my intro and conclusion.

I hope you all have a fabulous weekend!

See you on Monday!

I ♥ Etsy!

                           

Tonight I was feelin' blue. But not in a bad way. More in a light hearted, I want to fly away kind of way. Like a bird. Like a blue bird. (could have something to do with the fact that I finished a HUGE chapter of my thesis today. Woo-hoo!)

Inspired by my new flippy, flappy, airy, light headed heartedness, I decided to peruse Etsy for some pretty little blue birds. Enjoy!

1. Bluebird...necklace by Stacey Winters (you must check out the other things in her shop. so cute!)

2. Heart Squirrel and Bluebird Tree by Sugar Elf (SO adorable!)
3. Brie and the Bluebirds by Candace Jean (I have a soft spot for artwork featuring sad girls with big eyes)
4. Blue Bird, Bird Sculpture 199 by Paper Cottage (isn't he great?)
5. Mushroom Woodland Sculpture by Becky Kazana (I LOVE this little sculpture)
6. You Can Be When I Am Gone Print by The Little Fox (once again, sad girl, big eyes)
7. Bluebird by JBird Home (how precious is he?)

"It is what you read when you don't have to...

     

...that determines what you will be when you can't help it."  ~Oscar Wilde (Source)

Forgive me as I slip into geekdom for a moment...

Remember libraries? You know, those places with shelves with things on them called books? Yeah, those things, with covers and pages. You probably went to libraries once a week in elementary school for story time. You listened to the librarian read Mrs. Piggle Wiggle or Amelia Bedelia while the boys played with your hair.* And at the end you would check out joke books and ghost stories. Or maybe you were fortunate enough to have a mom who would take you to the town library before you were old enough for elementary school. 

Remember how great they smelled? Like old books. 

Remember how intimidating the librarian was, seated behind her big wooden desk, wielding the all-mighty and powerful stamp? 

Remember how exciting it felt to have a library book to read, and the thrill of the challenge of trying to finish it before it was due?

Ah... libraries. I came across this picture today from Factory 20 via the blog Modish Vintage, which I came across by way of  We ♥ Indie. (Yes, I took another journey around the internet. Yes, I was procrastinating again. So?) Which is what inspired this post.

 How cool is that stamp rack (not to be confused with tramp stamp)?

I have to be honest with you, I fear for the future of our libraries. I imagine something along the lines of what can be seen in The Time Machine where libraries no longer exist and we have to get our information from Orlando Jones. With the introduction of technology like Kindle and the iPad, I wonder if we are nearing a day when books will become obsolete. 

Just last year (or maybe it was two years ago now... three? Time is so tricky lately), the library at the elementary school I was working at was going through a process of bar coding all their books and integrating a scanning system. As a result, the card catalogs were no longer useful and were being disposed of. The librarian asked me if I had any use for them. I wish I had taken a moment to really think about it before I said no, but I didn't, so I said no. I regret it now. Just imagine all the things you could do with an old wooden card catalog....

The possibilities are endless and I cringe to think that I passed up the chance to own some history. Shame on me. Here are some pics of card catalogs and other library artifacts I fell in love with:

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* Everyone experienced this, right? RIGHT?! Nowadays I imagine this would be grounds for a sexual harassment suit. I can just see poor little Lucas now as he's being hauled off by the cops, muttering in awe, "but it's so soft... so soft...".

UPDATE: If you are a resident of New York State and would like to "take action" against the elimination of funding to public libraries, follow this link, New York Library Association.

If the fish curl fits...

                         
I know, I know, I know. I already posted today, but that was a lame-o post that probably belongs elsewhere (In fact, I did move it. You can now find it here. The bitterness was just too much for OBG.). I just had a moment that made me declare, out loud (and to myself), "I'm fickle." This, of course, reminded me of this little guy:

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Remember this? The Fortune Teller Miracle Fish? It's purpose was to indicate your "romantic state." You placed the fish on your palm and watched how he curled up (or not). The way he curled told you if you were experiencing "jealousy", "indifference", "love", "fickle", "false", "passion", or the dreaded "dead one."

I had one of these for YEARS. I kept him in the top drawer of my dresser and referred to him often. I can't recall where he came from, but I DO recall that he always gave me the same results (much like mood rings, which always turned black for me).

Yup! That's right. I was always "fickle".
   

fick·le

/ˈfɪkəl/ Show Spelled[fik-uhl]

–adjective

1. likely to change, esp. due to caprice, irresolution, or instability; casually changeable: fickle weather.

2. not constant or loyal in affections: a fickle lover.

   
Uh... yup! That would be me! And to think, that little red cellophane fish knew all along. Hey, at least it wasn't "dead one". There may be hope for me yet.

I probably could have saved myself (and others) years of trouble if I had just listened to my fish instead of getting pissed off at him and shoving him in my mouth every time he curled up "fickle" (yes, I actually put him in my mouth when I was mad at him. It seems I have an oral fixation. I would prefer not to talk about it.). 

(I think I might pick me up some of these. That way I will always know how other people feel. I'm a genius, I tell ya, a genius.)

Sometimes I long for a place I can call...

 

 Sometimes. But for the most part, I usually feel like this...

Call me morbid or absurd, but to me...

                        
...old age is a four letter word*

          

I recently (tonight) concluded that I do not wish to participate in the "Golden Years" of old age. Let us put aside for a moment the fact that I am only thirty and thus far, in good health. (Knock on wood! KNOCK ON WOOD!) This does not mean I am not permitted to be concerned about these things. 

I blame Glamour and that man with popcorn lung from Colorado (I eat a lot of microwaved popcorn. Not as much as this dude, but still). I picked up a Glamour magazine for my trip to the laundromat the other day, and it just happened to be the issue they printed the article, Your skin this summer: What's normal, what's not, in. 

(I tried to find a link on their website for this, but incidentally skin cancer must not be a pretty enough ailment to warrant a spot on their site. They'd rather make you pay for the chance to save your own life, I guess. Maybe if skin cancer was a growing threat to the ta-tas there'd be a bigger stink made about it.** But I digress.)

Where was I? Oh, right. Glamour scared the shit out of me tonight when they printed a picture of my someone's funky looking freckles. Like I need any more reasons to be concerned about skin cancer. 

• Blonde hair? Check! 
• Blue eyes? Check! 
• Fair skin? Double-check! 
• An unfathomable amount of exposure to UV rays in your lifetime because you were made to play outside when you were younger and no one believed in sunblock back then? Triple-check!

At any rate, I've decided that when I go I want it to be before I'm covered in festering lesions or hooked up to any tubes and hoses (or bells and whistles for that matter). Therefore, I'm looking into alternative routes.*** 

Since I'll never be an old, balding fat man with a bad heart, I can pretty much rule out croaking during sex. Bummer. There's always the Choose Your Own Adventure route. You know, like free-falling off a cliff. Or swimming with the sharks. Or marrying a producer for Survivor. Me, I'm just not that adventurous. 

One night, a friend and I were chit-chatting, and he outlined the plan for his demise to me. I don't want to ruin the surprise, but I will tell you that it is going to be pretty. All sparkly and colorful. But it's probably going to smell really, really bad.

For my quest to find my ideal fast-track to death's doorstep, I've drawn up, if you will, some criteria (in no particular order):

1. It can't hurt too bad. Some pain is fine, but no suffering. And certainly no pain that'll last for extended periods of time. In other words, NO SUFFERING. That would defeat the whole purpose.
2. No messes. I don't want to go splat on the pavement somewhere. Or end up a mangled mess after a car accident. Dismemberment would be fine as long as it doesn't violate number one. And I want all my pieces collectible. As in, they can easily be gathered up and shoved into the same trash bag. A beheading might be interesting...
3. Making the news or some list of unusual deaths would be cool, but not mandatory.
4. No one else can perish with me. And my death cannot result in the death of others.
5. An ironic death would be ideal. Like this dude, who died while giving a farewell speech.
6. No burning, drowning or asphyxiation.

Um, that's good for now. How about you? Do you have any preferred ways you'd like to go? Or not go?**** 

And because, unlike Glamour, I care about you're opportunity to identify questionable moles for free, here's some scary pics (in order of grossness):

(Source: My camera. Don't worry, I paid for the magazine. I made them nice and big so you can click on them and enlarge the images. You're welcome!)

                                                                                                  

* these words are brought to you by "Friend is a Four Letter Word" by Cake. And this source.
** please don't attack me for being anti-Save the Ta-Tas. I know women who have died from/have had/have breast cancer. I'm all for supporting the boobs, but come on. Share the wealth a little. Where's the promotion to Save the Nut-sacks? Ooh! Or Cup the Nuts! Sorry. Tangent.
*** I'm not suicidal. Well, at least not until PMS rears it's ugly head again.
**** let me assure you, again, for the record, I don't intend on offing myself.

Three things you should never, ever do while in the bathroom

                             
Eat. Gross. End of story.  

    

Read a book. Magazine... okay. Newspaper... probably not a good idea. Book... it's not a library, folks! What the hell are you doing in the bathroom where you have time to read a book. I, for one, cannot start reading a book and then just stop anywhere, willy nilly. I have to stop at a chapter or a sub-section. And I certainly don't take so much time on the toilet that I can read an entire chapter. If you're spending this much time on the toilet, go see a doctor. Or drink more water. Something. (this rant was brought to you as a direct result of the influence of my step-father, who could always be heard telling my mother, "The bathroom isn't a library.")

(My biggest use of the bathroom faux pas/pet peeve after this picture of the coolest toilet ever. I'm assuming it's nonfunctional)

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Talk on the phone. Please, don't ever, ever, ever think it is okay to have a phone conversation with me when you are on the pot. Who does this? Okay, my mom for one, and my dad, and I'm sure a plethora of other nasty people in my life, but I don't. I don't even bring my phone into the bathroom with me. Ew. Why? Yuck. Bathroom time is my time and not to be shared with some poor, unsuspecting fool on the other end of the phone. There's nothing worse than having this conversation take place:

Me: Well, why does he always have to go up there?
Other Person: I don't know. You would think he would want to meet people like him and who would enjoy his... hold on a sec... [swoosh... slup, slup... gurg...wish]
Me: (in shock in disbelief) ARE YOU IN THE BATHROOM?
Other Person: Uh, yeah.
Me: WHY WOULD YOU ANSWER THE PHONE WHILE YOU'RE IN THE BATHROOM?
Other Person: Uh, I do it all the time. Sometimes I have conversations with clients while I'm in the bathroom.
Me: (in total disgust) I am not impressed.

Gross. Gross. Gross. Gross.

And for the record, I'm compiling a list of all the people I know who use their phones while in the loo. I will never, ever, ever ask to use your phone. Ever.

Super Bubble bubble gum is NOT part of a well-balanced breakfast.

 

Thank god I came across this post by Smile and Wave this morning. Otherwise I wouldn't have crap to talk about. I'm pretty positive no one wants to hear about my attempts to achieve more integration among diverse pieces of data or assemble a coherent understanding of data. Snoozefest!

Enjoy this little game! (a.k.a. throwback to Myspace surveys)

1. When do you feel happiest? 

When the sun is shining and the birds are singing. 

Or whenever I have a drink in my hand. Preferably whiskey, but I try to be an equal opportunity drinker (but for the love of god, NOT vodka!)

2. How do you take care of yourself?

Whosa whatsa now? Um... I brush my teeth twice once almost every day.

And I take my vitamins.

And I don't play in traffic.

3. Are you internally (by yourself) or externally (by others) motivated?

Mostly externally, but I'm trying to be more internally motivated.

It's hard though, 'cuz the voice inside me is just SOOOO lazy.

4. What do you do for fun?

Lately? Well, I went to the laundromat the other day. That was fun.

Sometimes, when I'm really up for a wild and crazy time, I try to see how many undergrads I can hit with my car when they're not paying attention and walk out in front of me 'cuz they're gabbing on their cell phones.

5. What intimidates you?

I'm not really sure anything does. I don't have time to be intimidated by anything. Despite my panicky, freak-out moments, I am a pretty optimistic and confident person who believes I can handle anything that comes my way.

(I'm gonna be honest here, I looked up the word intimidate so I could answer this question accurately. I'm afraid of things, but nothing really fills me with fear)

6. What is something you're proud of?

My thesis.

7. Finish this sentence. I never _____________.

Went hang gliding. I had the opportunity to once, but didn't do it. I kind of wish I had.

8. Favorite vacation spot.

Vacation? Can't say I've ever really be on vacation 

(note to sisters: those two "vacations" with Dad don't count. We all know going anywhere with Dad is not a vacation. Thanks, by the way, for making me ride shotgun)

9. Today is a (rate from 1 - 10).

6

10. Finish this sentence. If you knew me really well you'd know _____________.

I'm funny and not as sweet and innocent as I look.

And that I'm in love with my toes. And my knees. (but not when it comes time to shave them, which is probably why they're always hairy)

p.s. I'm skipping work tomorrow.

I just finished another thesis chapter. Whoo-hoo! Only three more to go! I am now waiting to meet with a professor about the undergrad class I'll be teaching on Friday. In other words...

Consider this my post for the day. Lame, I know, but I am FRIED!

In the meantime, enjoy this video...

(Don't feel like you have to watch it. Unless you're feeling as frazzled and stressed out as I am. Incidentally, if you do a search for "serenity" on YouTube, your search will result in Godsmack videos and something titled "serenity bar fight rehearsal." I can only assume the latter refers to the movie, Serenity, but I could be wrong.)

Thesis writing is bad for your health (and undoubtedly, your sanity)

 

I'm taking a break from thesis writing to tell you about how writing a thesis could, quite possibly, kill you. Or at least destroy your health and drive you insane. 

For the record, not that anyone cares, I am now 59 pages into what I expect to be a 120 paged thesis. I have three and half chapters left to write and one chapter still in need of some polishing. (If you're keeping score, I have two chapters completed and half a chapter in second draft stage, for a grand total of seven chapters. I'm done boring you now.) 

I will graduate in May, I will graduate in May, I will graduate in all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy*.

Back to my point, thesis writing is bad for your health. 

For one, you will be chained to your work space of choice for most of the day. You will, most likely, be seated for a majority of the time, thus resulting in some horrible tushy expansion. If your work space of choice happens to be your bed (mine is) you will spend all of your time there. Not only will you be sleeping and typing in your bed/work space, you will also be eating there. 

Eating while thesis writing is sloppy work, what with the whole typing with one hand while trying to shove food in your mouth thing. You will soon tire of this task and the resulting mess and stop eating altogether. Unfortunately, since you long ago stopped cleaning your room and laundering your clothes you have a work space situation that now looks like this:

and like this:

You will soon discover ants in your bed. Most likely attracted there by the bagel crumbs and salsa spills from two weeks prior. (you stopped eating, remember? That filth has been there for awhile.) It will then occur to you that you should do some laundry. 

At this point you will be faced with a dilemma; do you A) spend the entire day washing the eight loads of laundry piled up on the floor** in the small washer in your basement, or do you B) haul your laundry to the laundromat and get it all done in a couple of hours? This is a no-brainer. B it is, however you're now faced with another dilemma. 

Going to the laundromat requires that you go out in public. Do you A) take an hour to shower and put together some semblance of an outfit, or do you B) say fuck it, go dirty but brush your teeth and throw on the first articles of clothing that look (and smell) fairly clean? No-brainer again. B it is, shit, it's not like you can even remember the last time you showered at this point, so what's one more day? (seriously, I've been wearing my hair in braids for the past three days and I've had a hat on for one, maybe two. Not a good sign). 

 Aren't I purdy? In case you're wondering, that paper clip is there for safe keeping. I lose them (and the one pen I have in my room) all the time. I may or may not have ripped my room apart looking for a lost paper clip. And my pen. (maybe I should raid my car)

So, you pack up the laundry and hit the road. Of course, you're going to need quarters. Lots of quarters. You take a quick trip to the grocery store to get coffee, water, a roast beef sandwich, a Glamour magazine and $20. (my bank doesn't have a branch or an ATM in my town. Back off.) Despite the fact that there is a customer service desk AND a bank branch in the grocery store, you head off to another bank to get your $20 exchanged for quarters. (past experience has taught you that the snippy teen at customer service doesn't like to part with quarter rolls and the bitch at the bank won't exchange your money unless you have an account there.)

You arrive at the laundromat, load up the entire wall of super-speedy, heavy-duty washers with all the clothes, towels and bedding you own. (hey, you're desperate and you've got shit to do. You can't be waiting around for slow, shitty washers all day. Plus, it's a Tuesday morning and you're the only one there.) The laundering process is pretty uneventful, aside from the nasty-ass coffee you drank, the questionable roast beef sandwich you scarfed down and the nasty green spider you grabbed a hold of while unloading your wash. 

On your way back home you notice a stench in your car that you earlier mistook for the smell of scuzzy, dirty clothes. This is when you realize the travel mugs of coffee you left in the car three weeks ago are still chilling in the cup holders. You arrive home (gagging and cursing the asshole who hit a skunk in the road in front of your house and the bus driver who just ran over the mutilated carcass for the millionth time), grab the two travel mugs, your bag of thesis work and your duffel bag of laundry (you'll go back for the basket and the water later) and head inside. 

In the process of unlocking the back door, you manage to drop one of the precariously balanced coffee mugs. You watch in horrifying slow motion as the mug tumbles out of your hand, smashes into the door, bursts open, and spills coffee chunks all over the entryway, and worse yet, your bag of thesis work.

You spend the next fifteen minutes cleaning up curdled coffee, trying desperately not to barf. Having cleaned up the mess, brought in the rest of the laundry, popped open a beer (hey, it's 5:00 in the UK), put away the laundry, recovered from having your closet shelf come crashing down on top of your head, you finally settle back into your work space. You get set for another afternoon/evening of thesis work, all the while scratching at the ingrown hairs that have sprouted (or not, I guess) on your legs, which haven't been shaved in about two weeks. Oh, and now your two-years worth of blood, sweat and tears smells like a dead baby. (I'm assuming dead babies would have a sickly-sweet, nauseating rotten milk smell to them)

See? Thesis writing is bad for your health. I should get hazard pay for this or something. Okay, time to pop a vitamin (it's all about sustenance, people!) and get back to work. Sleep, after all, is a luxury while thesis writing. Only five more weeks, folks. Five... more... weeks... When you look for me at graduation, I'll be the zombie/mummified skeleton in the ant-infested gown, dragging herself up by her broken and crippled hands (typing is a bitch!) to get her diploma. 

Be proud. Me? I'm seriously disgusted by myself, but I know it's only temporary (right? RIGHT!?) and all will be well again soon.

*  For the record, I try to refrain from wielding my axe while on my crazy, drunken, reclusive genius tirades. Just looking out for the housemates.

** This photo was taken a week or so ago, so you can't really get a good idea to what extent the clothes pile grew. I was half expecting Marjory the Trash Heap to raise her snooty head out of it.