This is what happens when I really need a nap
Today I've had very very little to do - only one "project" which was stuffing 33 folders which took me like, 45 minutes. This should mean I have the opportunity to do something worthwhile with my time - like studying Japanese (which, on the fair side, I did do for most of the morning, meaning I'm a chapter and a half away from being done reviewing my whole first semester) or writing the in-depth analysis of my reflections upon rereading The Chronicles of Narnia for the first time in years, an entry I've been mentally composing since I finished The Last Battle this weekend.
However, one of the other things I did this weekend (besides getting together with the housemates and finally putting up stuff on the white white walls of the Bungalow and making every room look like a room where people live rather than a storage space) was royally mess up my sleep schedule.
It wasn't totally my fault. It started Friday night, when I couldn't even keep my eyes open when I got home, so I took a 3hour nap from 7-10 before even eating dinner. I figured this was normal, as I'd been feeling flu-y, so I stayed up for a few hours before going back to sleep and sleeping another 10 hours.
However, Saturday I felt MUCH better - in the sick department, at least. Saturday evening, however, I got myself all upset for no reason, worked myself out of it, then finally decided to sit down and figure out my laptop's virus-protection situation. Which I've been putting off doing since like, July, but at about 1am Saturday I decided it needed to be done RIGHT THEN OMG. Meaning I didn't get to bed until 3am. And, of course, I wasn't too tired anyways because I'd slept for 13 hours the night before and spent most of the day (before my interior decorating binge) lounging around in my pjs watching TV and a movie.
Of course, come last night I was NOT ready to go to bed at 10 (because I have to get up at 6:45 am and OMG WHY DID I EVER COMPLAIN ABOUT HAVING TO GET UP AT LIKE 8:30!?!?!). I finally finished all my organizing and cleaning and packing my bag and finding a business-like outfit that's both warm and hadn't been worn last week and brushing my teeth and washing my face and moisturizing and shutting down my computer and reading another chapter or two of my book (and NOT folding my laundry, which means I'll have to do it tonight AND it'll be wrinkled) at about 11:00. And didn't get to sleep until at least 1, probably later.
So today I'm tired. And instead of a well-thought out essay considering the visibility of C.S. Lewis' faith in his writings, the impact of the cultural time period on the gender roles of his characters, and my personal reflections on why I, as a child, preferred certain of the books over others and how that has changed, you all get to read this lovely piece of ... well, we'll call it writing, for lack of a better term. That is, those of you who've gotten this far instead of going, "Oi, is that another parenthetical digression of senseless whingeing? Right then, I'm moving on to something more worthwhile!" But if you're still reading, we can get together and call this entry "writing" and laugh about the fact that people who didn't read this far are, apparently, British.
Or possibly Australian.
However, one of the other things I did this weekend (besides getting together with the housemates and finally putting up stuff on the white white walls of the Bungalow and making every room look like a room where people live rather than a storage space) was royally mess up my sleep schedule.
It wasn't totally my fault. It started Friday night, when I couldn't even keep my eyes open when I got home, so I took a 3hour nap from 7-10 before even eating dinner. I figured this was normal, as I'd been feeling flu-y, so I stayed up for a few hours before going back to sleep and sleeping another 10 hours.
However, Saturday I felt MUCH better - in the sick department, at least. Saturday evening, however, I got myself all upset for no reason, worked myself out of it, then finally decided to sit down and figure out my laptop's virus-protection situation. Which I've been putting off doing since like, July, but at about 1am Saturday I decided it needed to be done RIGHT THEN OMG. Meaning I didn't get to bed until 3am. And, of course, I wasn't too tired anyways because I'd slept for 13 hours the night before and spent most of the day (before my interior decorating binge) lounging around in my pjs watching TV and a movie.
Of course, come last night I was NOT ready to go to bed at 10 (because I have to get up at 6:45 am and OMG WHY DID I EVER COMPLAIN ABOUT HAVING TO GET UP AT LIKE 8:30!?!?!). I finally finished all my organizing and cleaning and packing my bag and finding a business-like outfit that's both warm and hadn't been worn last week and brushing my teeth and washing my face and moisturizing and shutting down my computer and reading another chapter or two of my book (and NOT folding my laundry, which means I'll have to do it tonight AND it'll be wrinkled) at about 11:00. And didn't get to sleep until at least 1, probably later.
So today I'm tired. And instead of a well-thought out essay considering the visibility of C.S. Lewis' faith in his writings, the impact of the cultural time period on the gender roles of his characters, and my personal reflections on why I, as a child, preferred certain of the books over others and how that has changed, you all get to read this lovely piece of ... well, we'll call it writing, for lack of a better term. That is, those of you who've gotten this far instead of going, "Oi, is that another parenthetical digression of senseless whingeing? Right then, I'm moving on to something more worthwhile!" But if you're still reading, we can get together and call this entry "writing" and laugh about the fact that people who didn't read this far are, apparently, British.
Or possibly Australian.