BRB.

Finishing three projects, taking three finals, and fixing up my fixer-upper.

Is today really Sunday?

What is it about vacation, no matter how brief, that completely screws up the inner calendar? I suppose it has something to do with breaking the routine. Suddenly, I am without the ebb and flow of labwork to mark the passage of time. These past few days have felt more like the bonus round of a video game, where time should have frozen as I hastily gathered some of the extra lives I’d tucked under the mattress back in August.

On the thirty-third day of Christmas…

Procrastination isn’t a fault with which I’ve familiarized myself. As an undergrad, I didn’t pull an all-nighter until well into my senior year, and even then it was under the summons of a few very unproductive group members. I’d always easily motivated myself with the promise of a good night’s sleep and some temporary relief from the burden of my schoolwork. Unfortunately, that just ain’t cutting it for me anymore.

“Diapers”

My life is completely insane at the moment, so rather than a long rambling post which my imaginary readers likely skip over in favor of food porn, you get a slightly shorter anecdote to skip over in favor of food porn. Hey, look—waffles!

My Twenty Percent

One of my favorite aspects of the Primal Blueprint is the concept of 80/20—I am a serial cheater when it comes my diet, and having that wiggle room built in has not only made me feel more successful, but I’ve found that when I do slip-up, I am less likely to indulge the way I used to (namely, in humongous pastries). My more sensible slip up this week was some dark chocolate bark, which has already made its yearly reappearance in Schnucks alongside a multitude of chocolate Santas stuffed with marshmallows, caramel, or marshmallows and caramel. On Thursday, my slip-up was slightly less sensible. Let’s just say upon premature exposure to the Christmas spirit, my twenty percent grew 3 sizes.

Happy Pumpkin Day!

For the past week I’ve been trying to remember the last year I went trick-or-treating, but I can’t. I know that I was in high school; I’ve always looked young for my age, so I didn’t feel awkward trick-or-treating through some of the more questionable years. I’m sure that during the last year I didn’t think it was anything special, that it would just be a new costume and the same candy in twelve short months, but suddenly no one was trick-or-treating anymore. They were going to parties, and I was handing out boxes of raisins to the next generation, resentfully eyeing pillowcases full of fun size Butterfingers and tubes of mini-M&Ms.

Not my beautiful house

I am not a patient person. While I don’t consider this my fatal flaw (that would be a toss up between slovenly tendencies and my desire to live as a hermit), it is one that I am constantly wrestling with. The repercussions are easy enough to handle when they are a result of my own actions: I didn’t feel like waiting for leftovers to heat all the way through, and now they kind of taste like crap. But it is a familiar crap, one that I’ve created. One that I control.