I’m heading down to Williamsburg for the day to pack up my apartment before the summer renters move in. I can’t say I’m particularly enthralled about it, either. I almost consider it a waste of time, but I might get to see friends, and I get to hide all of my stuff so it doesn’t get used by strangers.
On the other hand, it is a ridiculously beautiful day that I could have spent on a boat/on a jetski/in a bathing suit/with my boyfriend.
I just won’t think about that.
Four day weekends + pedicure + new shoes + outfit hunting through my own closet + PBS Masterpiece Theater = Happiness.
Do you know that feeling you get when you sleep too long? Like, you woke up perfectly well at 8am and then you stay in bed for another three hours anyway and then you’re just… cut off from reality for a while?
I did that this morning. And now I have that feeling. It’s extremely unpleasant.
I can barely function. I am writing this in bed, putting off the moment that I have to get up and do shit. Which is now.
12 hour work days are not okay with me. Neither is working a full week after I’ve worked a 24 hour weekend.