I took the day off today, because 1: I’m so ridiculously behind on studying, and 2: I was so stressed the what out (if you haven’t noticed I like substituting “what” for “fuck”) that I didn’t think I could make it through another minute let alone 8 hours at work. We’re talking verge of tears stressed out. Why was I that stressed out? Too much to do, all of it too important to let go, and not enough time to accomplish it all. And maybe a little bit of poor time management a few weeks ago. Also, there’s a huge life decision I’ve made two or three times now in the past six months, and suddenly, when I thought my mind was made up, I’m faced with making the damn decision yet again. Stress.
So anyway, I took the day off, mostly to study, but also to relax. It’s been a nightmare at work for the past four weeks (working at a gym after New Year’s = HELL ON EARTH). Thankfully, all your resolutions are starting to become less resolute. I’d feel bad for saying it, but why coat the truth in sugar, when sugar was the very thing you were trying to avoid up until this point (when you realized it wasn’t worth it and your crack-sugar addiction is more important than losing a limb to diabetes). I have my cranky pants on still, you see, and I can’t get them off. Stress.
ANYWAY. I’m at the point in my day where I’m supposed to relax. I can’t relax because all I can think about is studying, but when I try to study more, my brain steps outside for a cigarette and I’m left drooling on my book. So I go to the fridge for a beverage. I knew I was low on alcohol, but because I left the case of beer in the fridge, I didn’t know exactly how low.
I had two beers left. I look to the rum. I graciously left myself not even enough for a decent drink (maybe not even enough for a normal person’s decent drink). My a-hole-ishness knows no bounds. I could go out and get more beverage, but I can’t stop thinking of how much studying I have to do (and how much of it is because of my beloved friend Procrastination), and I tell myself “You don’t deserve to get more boozes; you must suffer.” So now I’m some kind of sado-masochist, causing deliberate pain to my psyche, and some part of me loving it. That’s called Discipline.
Stressed out, booze emergency, inability to get more. Solution: Chug the shit out of what you have and resign yourself to drinking tea later as you go to bed sober, alone, and completely aware of how cold and miserable you are. DRAMA.
Just a second, the phone is ringing…………………………….. That was TNT. They want to do a show about me (you know, because they know drama).
And before you say that booze isn’t going to help my stress levels, let me just say: “Shut up,” and “Give this one to me.” Because I needs it like Gollum needses the ring. He wasn’t addicted or anything, he was empowered.
Oh crap, the beer is gone…. I’m going to die.
P.S. “What” Ben Franklin.