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Life-y stuff
Mar. 6th, 2006 08:40 pmDid the gym thing. Damn, but I am so out of training.
Me on treadmill: Pant, pant. Damnit, it's only been a week. One week, and you're wussing out at half a mile. Pant, pant. Come on. If you aren't hurting you aren't trying.
Total time: 23 mins. Total mileage: 2.00.
Me with the weights: Pant, pant. Whimper. Wuss, damnit. You managed four full sets of reps week before last.
With struggle, the weights were overcome. I am bloody embarrassed at the state of my general fitness. Now I'm wrecked, and I need to start that damn French-y assignment. The one I put on the long finger, and thus have due tomorrow. (Not one word of it is written. Not one!)
And must compose e-mail to the student counselling service explaining that no, I am not calling the wrong number because whenever I dial it I get a 'This number is busy' message. Discussing appointments via e-mail is tiresome, especially when all I want to do is call chicken on it.
And want to write shiny stories, instead of scratching them down in a notebook while trying to brace self upright on packed, juddering commuter trains.
And if I reapply for a different course next year, there will be Trouble. But damnit, I've been hating the French since the start of this term, and feel like I'm screwing up like nobody's business.
No more thinking. Thinking is bad. Thinking causes the little mousies that power our brain to squeal and squeak on the wheels in our head. Squeaking means headaches.
Tired. So tired. Neeed sleeeeep.
Me on treadmill: Pant, pant. Damnit, it's only been a week. One week, and you're wussing out at half a mile. Pant, pant. Come on. If you aren't hurting you aren't trying.
Total time: 23 mins. Total mileage: 2.00.
Me with the weights: Pant, pant. Whimper. Wuss, damnit. You managed four full sets of reps week before last.
With struggle, the weights were overcome. I am bloody embarrassed at the state of my general fitness. Now I'm wrecked, and I need to start that damn French-y assignment. The one I put on the long finger, and thus have due tomorrow. (Not one word of it is written. Not one!)
And must compose e-mail to the student counselling service explaining that no, I am not calling the wrong number because whenever I dial it I get a 'This number is busy' message. Discussing appointments via e-mail is tiresome, especially when all I want to do is call chicken on it.
And want to write shiny stories, instead of scratching them down in a notebook while trying to brace self upright on packed, juddering commuter trains.
And if I reapply for a different course next year, there will be Trouble. But damnit, I've been hating the French since the start of this term, and feel like I'm screwing up like nobody's business.
No more thinking. Thinking is bad. Thinking causes the little mousies that power our brain to squeal and squeak on the wheels in our head. Squeaking means headaches.
Tired. So tired. Neeed sleeeeep.
