46 days, 46 days, 46 days!
46 days from now, I get to go home. The countdown's been on since September... but now that the number's under 50, I can't resist obsessing over the ever-shrinking time between me... and 10 sweet, sweet days off work.
30+16; 60-14; 4x10+6 (provided you don't screw up your order of operations). I keep turning the equations over and over in my mind, savoring the promise that this time will pass, that in 6^2+10 days I'll be getting on the red-eye to Detroit, crossing two time zones, killing three hours in the airport lounge, then boarding another plane back to Louisville, home, family and a life a million times removed from the one I'm stuck in now.
And then, when I come back, I'll only have eight more months before it's over for good.
Speaking of, I need to write my law school essay. Dear God, it's high school all over again. I crank out reams of news copy every day, but can't write a goddamn personal statement to save my life.
Somehow it's a lot easier to write about snow in Spokane, slush in North Idaho, child molesters and 40 abandoned Labradoodles than why you'd make a good lawyer.
Three weeks to Thanksgiving. Eight weeks to Christmas.
46 days until I escape -- for a little bit.
I never imagined I'd be counting the days like this. What an odd year.
Ah, well. C'est la vie. Off to work.
30+16; 60-14; 4x10+6 (provided you don't screw up your order of operations). I keep turning the equations over and over in my mind, savoring the promise that this time will pass, that in 6^2+10 days I'll be getting on the red-eye to Detroit, crossing two time zones, killing three hours in the airport lounge, then boarding another plane back to Louisville, home, family and a life a million times removed from the one I'm stuck in now.
And then, when I come back, I'll only have eight more months before it's over for good.
Speaking of, I need to write my law school essay. Dear God, it's high school all over again. I crank out reams of news copy every day, but can't write a goddamn personal statement to save my life.
Somehow it's a lot easier to write about snow in Spokane, slush in North Idaho, child molesters and 40 abandoned Labradoodles than why you'd make a good lawyer.
Three weeks to Thanksgiving. Eight weeks to Christmas.
46 days until I escape -- for a little bit.
I never imagined I'd be counting the days like this. What an odd year.
Ah, well. C'est la vie. Off to work.