Proof that gravity and I are in a never-ending battle

So, there was that one time I fell off a curb and destroyed my ankle. There was that other time I stepped in a pothole and fell down. And that other time when I slipped on some ice or something and fell down in a cross walk. All of those times I had at least one (if not a few or so) drinks in my system, but I had explained to everyone that the booze was not the cause of the falling down. I just fall down. My feet and body betray me and down I go! All those years of ballet training, and I am defeated by the least coordination-requiring tasks.

The newest entry into the log of gravity getting the best of me happened last night. I had spent the day on campus studying. My brain was getting tired and some delightfully terrible television was about to start so it was that time to head home. Upon exiting the building, I had to face three, yes, THREE, whole stairs. Stairs One and Two went just fine. But Three. Oh man. That last step. It was in cahoots with my left ankle, and together they proclaimed, "Down you go!"

And I did. Right there in front of no one (because it was like eight o'clock so there wasn't anyone sitting outside), I fell in an elegant display descending-stairs failure. The only thing I have to show for it is the stylish scrape on my knee.



It will not keep me from wearing shorts when I inevitably head outside in the warmth and sunshine to study. It does make it slightly painful to bend my knee. But there are worse things in the world, so let's just laugh at this one.

"It certainly does suck."

So, whenever my brief "career" in broadcast meteorology comes up, I find myself explaining it in the same way just about every time. Basically, I did the weather. On television. Broadcast in five counties. For about two and a half years. But this wasn't affiliated with a station. It wasn't a proper job or internship or anything. It was recorded in the basement of the meteorology building on campus. And to get it out to the people? We were on a local channel that was associated with the university.

"It's like cable access. You know, like Wayne's World."

If a blank stare follows, I start to question why that conversation started in the first place (because, seriously, you haven't seen Wayne's World?!) and usually start looking for the easiest, least awkward exit out of the situation. Well, unless it's an interview. Then I stick it out and just move on and pretend I didn't just reference an early 90s SNL-spin-off movie. But! If there is at least some understanding of the existence of Wayne's World, I'll continue the comparison. Our show was also shot in a basement. And it was a small room. And it was a handful of people that produced it. And some that were on camera. We didn't have special guests like Tom Hanks as Aerosmith's roadie, but sometimes friends would hang out and watch the show. Oh, and we had a giant green wall. So I guess that's different too.

Tragically, I don't have any photos of the studio, of me in the studio, or anything like that. I do have clips of me from the show, which is awesome and weird at the same time.

Okay. I'm going to get back to watching Wayne's World (because I happened to catch it just as it was starting on TV). I'll leave you with one last thought.

Wait! Spoiler Alert! If you haven't seen Seven (again, what is wrong with you?!), try not to read below this, though I don't think it spoils too much.


Has anyone on the internet made a mashup of Brad Pitt screaming, "What's in the box?!" with Wayne saying, "If it's a severed head, I'm going to be very upset."? Because that should exist.

Just did a quick check. Does not exist. But Wayne's World does have a rating of 85% on Rotten Tomatoes. And so does Seven!

Update: Oh. Right. When they get to the big-boy studio, they have a Chroma key wall. But theirs is blue.

And back!

After some encouragement to photoblog an event that just transpired in my kitchen, I realized that it might be time to get back to the blog. It's been almost nine months. Quickest explanation: my last post was about my cat dying. And that shit was depressing. And really hard to deal with. And it's still sad. So I abandoned this for a while.

BUT LET'S NOT DWELL ON SUCH THINGS! Not now. Maybe not ever.

The moral of the story is that I made popcorn.



Quick rundown of things: my current apartment offers very little in the way of space in the kitchen so I don't have a microwave. I've never made popcorn in the not-microwave variety. So I guess you could say that I popped my pan-cooked popcorn cherry. Oh yes, bad puns. You're welcome.

Following directions (because that's what the uninformed, like myself, do when attempting new things, especially when excessive smoke in my kitchen is something that occasionally happens and I'm really tired of setting off my smoke detector), I added the oil and the test kernel. And once Colonel Test starts playing around in the oil, little steam bubbles started emerging!



Things move very quickly once that thing explodes, and since I am but one person, I couldn't capture the frantic magic that was adding a layer of popcorn and shaking it and letting the steam escape and just generally trying not to have either myself or the popcorn get burned. But! Success!



Pro tip: melt some butter in the pan you popped the corn in.

I have no sense of measurement so I probably couldn't recreate the amount of popcorn I made, but it was enough to satisfy the craving for the night with plenty of leftovers tomorrow. And it's helping me study!



Law books used for reference. Placement of the bowl used to prove that I'm more about doing this right now than typing up my notes like I should be. I'll get to it eventually. After I start this next episode...

Chinatown: check!

With the move to Vermont a mere three months away, New York and I have some serious hanging out to do. To make sure I go out with a bang, a bucket list has been created and routinely updated. One item on the list was to eat Chinese food in Chinatown. How does one go almost three years in New York and never having done this? I'm not really sure.

Susan is in town and as we've previously seen, she and I love adventures. We had discussed meeting up for a meal, the bucket list item was mentioned, and thus a plan was made without much thinking (and for those of you who don't know, I hate trying to make a legitimate plan). That, and she already had a place in mind. Our afternoon planned itself. So considerate of it. Thanks, afternoon!

After hitting up a Starbucks (because, let's be real, when do I ever not need massive amounts of caffeine?), we wandered through Chinatown using our smartphones and my bare-bones knowledge of the area to find our way to Mott Street and our final destination of Hop Lee. We were pleasantly greeted and promptly sat at a booth on the side. After much consideration, we decided on an assortment of items that could feed at least four people.

How amazing does all of that look?! If you must know, it was incredible. It was all so good that we sat there for well over an hour, eating and chatting. Numerous times we thought we had reached our limit and uttered a phrase or two emphasizing our fullness, usually while scooping some more rice and sauce and egg and broccoli and bok choy and chicken. When we finally threw in the towel, the table looked something like this.

In all actuality, we probably ate a little more after I took this photo. Then we had some orange slices and our fortune cookies. Then we went to get ice cream. Then we continued wandering in a quest to find hilarious plushy items. Susan and I got matching turtles!

Missions accomplished!

Piling it on

As if things weren't going as oppositely of swell as possible, I woke up the other morning to find some bloody mess in the cat box. Oh. Warning the previous sentence, and probably the content of some subsequent ones, is gross. Now, with multiple cats, it isn't always obvious of the culprit. Suspect one was Cancer-Cat for obvious reasons. Suspect two was little man cat since I couldn't find him. I spent the morning going about my business of the usual routine (make tea and read the internet and think about the things that need to be done) but repeatedly checking each time a cat took care of theirs. Eventually, I solved the mystery. My little Socks kitty-man was spewing a bloody slime from his rear end. Delightful.

I considered canceling my massage, but I didn't. I reminded myself that I deserved to take care of me and not just my cats (sound more like a crazy cat lady, why don't you?!) and the constant pain in my back added its sentiments about the necessity of a massage. I swallowed my stress and panic and money woes long enough to put on some sweat pants and a hoodie to jump on the train and trek down to get the knots in my back worked out. Feeling a little better, I stopped to get some wine and headed home for an afternoon/evening of wallowing in "why me" wailings and wine. By the time I got home, I somehow had a change of heart. I cracked a beer and settled in to my couch.

Stress remained. I felt like a penny that had been left on the train tracks. I knew I could just lay there and think about things. I had to do something. Phone call happened. Vet appointment was made. The next day couldn't come quickly enough.

That evening, I was restless. I had to get out of my house. Two beers deep I headed to the bar to meet a friend. I vented. We chatted. Beers and eventually laughs were had. I returned home with an attitude like no other. I was going to take on whatever else came my way. I wouldn't be broken. Not by this. Not by this plus this plus this. Step one was to remove the dry erase board from the wall and wipe it clean. Step two was to fill it with all of the things that I could control. Once that was done, I headed to bed to face the next day.

Socks went to the vet, howling part of the way. Dear people on the subway, it's payback for your babies crying. Stop staring.

The checkup was quick, and he was diagnosed with inflammation that was probably the result of stress, which is probably the stress of Mandy being sick and out of the house and such. Some meds were prescribed and the bill was less than I expected and far less than Mandy's visit the week before.

He seems to be feeling better already. I feel better in the sense that I don't want to be weak. I hate being weak and appearing weak so I'm standing up to the Universe and all of the shit that has been thrown my way. Taking into my own hands what I can and letting the rest just be there. In the past forty-eight hours, I have accomplished many things. You would think the To Do List would shrink, but as I cross things off, I find more things to add. This is my life and I will win.

This is about my super sick kitty

This is kind of a sad post but it needs to be written out and archived. Also, it's a good way for me to talk about it without having to actually talk about it because I sometimes turn into a complete wreck and sometimes I just want to pretend to be normal. So I'll put everything here, and you're welcome to offer condolences and hugs. Unless it looks like I've been freshly crying. Then don't. Just talk to me (about anything but my cat). If I talk back, the conversation will continue. If not, I don't feel like talking. If I want to talk about it, I'll bring it up and probably drive the conversation until I'm ready to pull that car over.

A few months ago, I made a post about my cat Mandy going to the vet. She had been throwing up and lost some weight so I took her in. The results came back fine, and the vet suggested a change of food due to a sensitive stomach. It worked for a bit and she seemed happier without the dry food. Then a couple months later, I noticed she was losing more weight and very fast. I took her back in for an ultrasound. The abnormalities suggested cancer in her stomach and a followup test of some tissue samples confirmed (and if you want to know, it is intermediate-to-high grade, large-cell lymphoma). Devastated was the feeling I felt first. Helpless was the one that prevailed over all others.

I looked at her increasingly shrinking body and knew that I had to at least see if she would respond to the chemo treatment, so I opted to move forward. The few days leading up to the first treatment were incredibly stressful. She wasn't really eating and had started to hide in corners, but not her typical "I'm trying to sleep so I'm going where it's hard for you to reach me so you will leave me alone" corners. I was pleading with her and begging her to just survive long enough to make it to the first round. And she did.

The first round was great. She automatically felt better and was eating again and sleeping out in the open. Her tolerance for me throwing pills down her throat every afternoon was quite admirable. But the first round was only a protein to break up the cancer. A week went by and then the real chemo began.

I dropped her off and ran errands to pass the time. I picked her up and brought her home. She was sleepy and a little floppy, so I set her up on my bed. Because her pee and shit would be all toxic, she had to be separated from the other cats, but since she'd just gone from being Cancer-Cat to Chemo-Cat, she got the bedroom with me and the other two had to deal with the rest of the apartment. The following few days were rough. There was poop falling out of her butt constantly and she had little to no appetite. And she just wanted to lay around and do nothing. Worst of all, she looked sad and miserable. Maybe that was just the first round and others would be easier on her? Maybe the first couple of days are like this and then they're Super-Cat again? Many questions that had to wait until the next appointment with the vet, one week after the first.

Before they can proceed with chemo, they have to do bloodwork to make sure everything is okay. Drop cat off. They steal blood. They run tests. If all is good, cat gets next chemo in a pill. Eventually, I got tired of waiting and called the vet. They were still waiting for results, but I could head in around the usual pickup time because they'd be ready by then.

At every step of this process, the days that I spend waiting to hear back from the vet about picking her up are agonizing. I start to panic that something has gone wrong. I fear the worst case scenarios. This time when I showed up they brought me back into a room to chat. The chemo most likely had eroded a good amount of the tumor, but so much so that it caused an ulcer in her stomach. As a result, she was experiencing internal bleeding and needed a blood transfusion to survive. I authorized it without asking any questions about the outlook without it or the cost. Those didn't even cross my mind. I asked questions like "when can I take her home?" and "seriously, when can I take her home?". There was also a discussion about furthering the chemo. At this point, we cannot continue for at least a couple weeks, and if we do, there is a risk of this happening again. I have yet to make a decision, but I don't see myself continuing the chemo treatment (and totally reserve the right to change my mind). So far it has just been so hard on her and beyond stressful on me.

Anyway, she stayed over night and got some other cat's blood to help fix her. They constantly ran tests to monitor everything. It went well and I got to bring her (and her bag full of meds) home. To snuggle her. And pet her whenever she wants me to pet her. And to stop when she's had enough. And to let the tub drip so she can get fresh running water whenever she wants (yes, terrible environmentalist move, but this is my cat we're talking about here). And take a million and one pictures of her. And let her sleep wherever she likes in the bed, even if this means I sleep in the shape of a seven or an X or a square root symbol. And make sure her favorite toys are always within reach. The point is making her as happy and comfortable as absolutely possible, which sounds so fucking cliche it hurts, but is totally true.

And the results are in...

I thought and stressed for many hours to make my decision, but last week I made it official. I signed the forms and mailed the check to secure my seat at Vermont Law School!

It's in the teeny, tiny town of South Royalton, Vermont, or as I have described to many people as being a rural suburb of Middle-Of-Nowhere. A fun fact that I just learned from Wikipedia, which is about as good of a source as any when it comes to these things, is that VLS is twenty-seven miles from a traffic light. A question that I would then pose to Wikipedia (or anyone who will listen and/or might have some insight into the subject) is whether or not that twenty-seven miles is driving or as the crow flies. Possibly two very different things in the rural landscape that is my future state of residence.

It took a lot of thinking to make this decision. It also took some key rejections, a couple waitlists, and other lovely offers from other wonderful schools. In the end, I know that Vermont is for me. When I went for a visit, I adored the small town charm and loved the enthusiasm from the school. They shared with me all of the little facts and details about the school, including where the buildings got their names (all of the buildings on the campus are named after the families from which they were purchased). I can't express just how excited I am for law school in general, and especially for Camp Law School.

Go Fighting Swans!

Holy shit! It's been almost a month since I've updated this thang!

Life has been really crazy the past few weeks. Some major ups and one super huge major down. There's next to nothing in the middle. It's one end or the other. And this ends this cryptic post. More updates later, including which law school I will attend.

I know. You're excited.

This is the company that I keep

In response to an inquiry about a friend's weekend plans, I received the following email...

Sunday is Putnam county - pancakes-bacon-and a goat.

Hopefully Sat morning involves using a screwdriver

and that is all I know at present...

Perfection.

Get comfy

Right leg.

And left leg.

Yeah, I'm always classy.

Don't judge me. This is my weekend.

Spring break is upon us! What does this mean for me? Grading! And lots of it! And working too. However, it does mean that I don't have class tomorrow, which means I have two days off in a row! This is something that hasn't happened to me since mid-January when I took on the teaching assistant position.

How do I celebrate this? Uh, duh.

I should be grading. But honestly, before I can do that I should really actually do the assignment so I have the answers in front of me. So I will pretend to do that this evening! It's nerdy and delightful. And Radiohead will be the soundtrack. More on that and the FSU packet you can see in the background of the photo in other posts that may or may not happen.

Sorry, this side of the bathroom is chosed for cleaning

And then I fell down

Or, this could also be called "How I am the least graceful ballerina ever". It's also yet another one of those stories where I fell down while I was drunk, not necessarily because I was drunk. The fact that I have multiple stories like this kind of proves my point made in the title and the first sentence.

Friday night we went out bowling to celebrate the birthday of a friend. It was a splendid evening of me bowling one of my worst games yet, amazing bar food, and open bar. Oh, and great friends. They were important too. Much fun was had by all, but sadly the night could not go on forever (read: the open bar ended). A trio of us wanted just one more drink (and couldn't convince our friends to join us at a bar where we knew the bartender), so we ventured off on our own.

We set off walking the, I don't know, three blocks to the next bar. It was at an intersection, where I twisted the shit out of my ankle and fell into a puddle. Know what else fell into said puddle? My phone. Don't worry it's fine. My ankle? Not so much. The benefit to being intoxicated when you do something fantastically awful to your ankle, you don't really notice it so much. However, when I got home and removed my boots, I saw that my right ankle was swollen like woah. That, or someone implanted a tennis ball under my skin. Yeah, that swollen. The dancer that will always live inside me took over. I found my bandage, wrapped it up, and went to sleep.

In the morning, I found I couldn't put any weight on it. None. I started thinking about how I had to work and whether or not the boss deserved a heads-up text. No sense in making him panic (or start his morning on the wrong foot), so I opted for no text and instead spent my morning going through the "so you sprained your ankle" routine. After a warm shower, I could move my foot around more freely than when I first woke up. Progress. Hopped into the kitchen to make an ice pack, then got comfy on the couch for an episode of How I Met Your Mother while my elevated foot took in the sweet, sweet relief of the ice. After the appropriate twenty minutes (thank you, Netflix, for making TV into the perfect twenty-minute segment so I don't have to remember to keep an eye on the time), I wrapped the ankle up and put on my big clunky sneakers. I could walk! With a limp and not very quickly, I could walk! Success!

After a weekend of my usual work schedule featuring me, the bartender with a slight limp, I was happy to be home Sunday night to relax and watch a bit of TV. And, you know, document my injury.

Step one is to ice and elevate the foot simultaneously.

The plastic wrap holds it in place. I really waited all day to be able to relax with it like that. I mean, it's pretty banged up. Look at all the bruising!

Gross, right!?

The worst part was my inability to walk without support. For example, I wanted to make some pasta. Here's the thing. I hate wearing shoes, especially big sneakers and the like. And I really hate wearing shoes in my own apartment (or really, anyone's domicile for that matter). So, I compromised.

Pasta was a success. Foot was elevated. Netflix was had.

And that was my evening and much of my day today. However, today, I can walk around sans support and it makes me far happier than it should. Maybe someday I will learn to be less clumsy. Until then, people will be treated to more stories and situations like this.

A quick post that will answer a question I am repeatedly asked

I finished my law school applications. All of them. And this happened twice.

The first day that I finished all of them was two weeks ago. I wrote all of the personal statements. I filled out all of the applications. I made my resume even more awesome. And then I dropped close to five hundred dollars to apply to all of them. I was done and happy and celebrated by going to work for eight hours. Fabulous.

Then, this past Thursday I received an email from Tulane. They had waived my fee to apply so I figured that I might as well. It had made the short list originally but was removed in favor of other schools and because I had already spent $500 on applications. But! If all I had to pay was the LSAC fee, I could manage that. Spent the day fixing up the personal statement and filling out the application. Added it to the shopping cart on the site, and that's when I noticed that Pace had decided they didn't want me to have to pay to apply either! I had already finished that application, but didn't want to spend the money, so added it too! This, my friends, brings the total number of schools applied to up to eleven. It is a lovely number because it's prime and people like to turn things up to it. Seems like a good sign to me.

So. You want the list? In no particular order, I give you my schools!

NYU
Georgetown
George Washington
Florida State
University of Oregon
Lewis and Clark
University of Maryland
Vermont Law School
Fordham
Tulane
Pace

Now, whenever someone asks where I have applied, I can just link them here. Win!

Personal Statement! Fuck Yeah!

Let's get this straight. I love writing. Adore it. For fuck's sake, I started a blog because I enjoy putting thoughts into words and getting them out into the ether. I think I really enjoy writing because it is an outlet by which I can express myself. Now, with that being said, I absolutely detest writing about myself. When speaking about my goals and aspirations, I compose coherent thoughts and it sounds wonderful (probably), at least for the most part. Yet, when I am presented with the task to write about my strengths in order to impress some board of people deciding my academic fate, I clam up. I panic. I have constant nagging thoughts of not being good enough and am usually overwhelmed by the fear that I will never be accepted anywhere for anything (school or a job) and I will just waste away into nothingness. It gets pretty bleak. My apologies for all of my friends whoever have to witness it. And I know, you're thinking that everyone struggles with this, but really, there isn't any other way for admissions committees to get to know more about the students than from just resume alone. So I get it. I know it has to exist. It's just hard to write.

I've been dreading putting it all into a cohesive document for weeks now. I have been constantly thinking about it, jotting down notes here and there, and started an official document on my computer last week sometime. Today is the day my first application was due, and the deadline has put me into overdrive. That is awesome, by the way. I'm okay with this feeling. Mostly because the rapidly approaching submission hour causes me to be efficient and dedicated with my time. All I have to do is put it together, edit it, have friends edit it, panic about it, and then send it in. Then try my best not to re-read it ever again so as not to find typos and feel bad about myself for forever.

I might write a funny version of a personal statement. Maybe. Or maybe "funny" isn't the word, maybe just "slightly more honest because it isn't shrouded in big words that are used for no reason other than to prove I can". Oh, and I'd probably swear. More later. After I get this done (or until I take another break).

How are you spending your evening?

So, it's Valentine's Day. And even though I am single, I still love Valentine's Day. I think it's a cute holiday. It's totally cheesy and lame and everything you would want out of a holiday. People wish you love and there's candy and stuffed animals. AND! There's the added bonus of it being one month from Pi Day. Nerd moment. Let's move on.

I should be working on my personal statement for law school, but more on that later. In the meantime, I have caught up with some friends, read dumb shit on the internet, and ordered chinese food. And there's the motivation wine, which has the added benefit of helping me remain calm about this whole application ordeal. And cheesy poofs. Don't judge. It's doing it job, at least up until I wrote that and was reminded that deadlines are fast approaching. I have my notes for the statement, and some parts of it are written. It's just putting it all together and deciding what to keep and what to discard.

But I had idea. I have heard that sometimes people who need to write something are blocked by the thoughts and words that they know won't make the final edit (and shouldn't even make it into a completed draft). A remedy for this situation is typically to write those words down to get it out of the system. So that is what I might do. Well, that was my plan, but this movie is hypnotizing.

What movie? Red State. So far, so good. I know Kevin Smith is not everyone's cup of tea, but the man can direct. Visually, it's stunning. The dialogue is very good. And the story is creepy. Yay for Netflix having it listed in the first frame of the horror section.

I stopped writing for a bit there. I got sucked in. I am so often that person who watches a movie or television while doing something else. If a movie can completely hold my attention, we have something special. And in a quick check on IMDB, this movie only has a 6.3/10. Not entirely sure how that's possible, but everyone is entitled to their opinion.

There is probably about thirty minutes left in the movie, but unless it completely fails at being a movie, I will recommend this to people. It's beautifully shot. Like, incredibly well done. I'm a cinematography nerd, and I know that's not necessarily at the top of everyone's list. But if it's good, you'll love a movie more because of it. Trust me. It's also really quickly paced. Kevin Smith can be prone to excessively dialogue that sometimes drives the story while often times containing tangents of philosophy of some sort. A lot has happened already. And there are a lot of people who you'll vaguely recognize from some random show or movie or something.

Going to finish this movie (HOLY SHIT WHAT?! Just kidding, I saw that one coming. There were other serious HOLY SHIT! moments though) and pick out my outfit for tomorrow's environmental law event. The morning and I will have to be friends tomorrow, but it's for a good cause.

I don't think that fire should be there. My wine is almost gone. Tonight was a lovely evening. Pink hearts and red roses and all that lame V-Day shit. 'Night, lovelies.

#WineParty

Fuck glasses!

Not the seeing kind. The drinking kind.

Guys, you don't know how to use my phone.

You guys, I can't. I'm laughing too hard.

Heart.

Because tonight should be remembered!

And since three bottles are already gone, we probably won't.

There have been many tweets. My phone has been stolen. I love my friends. This night is just what we all needed.

Seriously no

I'm not going to lie. I got distracted.

Opening the fourth bottle. So there's that.

To give you an idea of where this night is going...

So, it's been a rough week. Drama with the whole being a teaching assistant thing (and expecting very reasonable things from my students, like doing the work). Dealing with Florida State to get my transcripts. And of course the whole writing my personal statement for law school applications (more on that another day). The solution? Wine! And lots of it! Also, some food to fill our drunk tummies.

After a quick walk to the store for some snacks, we returned home to get our wine on and order our pizza. Obviously, we busted out the chips and cheesy poofs while waiting for the pizza. Well, first wine. Then snacks. Then pizza ordering. So that happened.

Then this happened.

That cheesy poof is totally flicking me off! Look, delicious snack, you are not M.I.A. and I am not the Super Bowl audience (yeah, I went there...I'm sorry).

That's where this night is going. Probably. Maybe. Or whatever.

It might sound like I'm anti-sleeping, but I'm not. Probably not. Maybe.

A lot of people truly love sleeping. I have those friends. You have those friends. I assume almost everyone has those friends. Maybe you are that friend? They'll sleep like ten or twelve or however many hours and be so happy they did it.

I am not that way. Not even a little bit. The other night, I went to bed a bit after eleven. I set my alarm for 8:30, to give myself nine hours of sleep (all about those sleep cycles). I awoke at seven and considered getting up. I felt well-rested and alert, but didn't want to be tired come mid-day. So I remained in bed, checked my email on my phone, and brought one of my cats over to cuddle. Eventually, I went back to sleep. I awoke another handful of times before I actually got out of bed at 10:15. Eleven hours. Eleven! Absolutely ridiculous.

I spent the rest of the day feeling kind of groggy and gross. I took forever to accomplish anything. And! Anything that I did manage to get done was only after copious amount of tea had been consumed. At one point, I even considered taking a nap, and I am so not a nap person. Naps for me usually only happen when I have a massive amount of work to do and somehow just fall asleep on the couch, bed, or desk, wherever I'm doing work. If I plan to nap, it rarely happens and then I just get sad because I'm tired and a failure.

The moral of the story is that I should sleep less so that I am better rested and therefore more productive because apparently, even with that many hours of sleep, I still require a caffeine input just shy of having a caffeine drip attached to my arm. And with that, I'm going to have myself a glass of tea and maybe actually get some work done before work. Maybe.