When I was four years old, my parents caught me licking a handrail. And of course, being the rebel that I am, I wasn’t taste testing the sort of germs your average little girl is apt to lick; instead I had my tongue all over the banister of a busy downtown mall. In Kenya. Not only do I imagine I came out of that mall on my own two feet, but I’ve yet to test positive for either AIDS or malaria and I take that as my first introduction to invincibility.
Naturally, I’ve spent nearly every day since testing that theory. I’ve gotten lifts from the bar only to spend five hours in a buddy’s drug house prohibited from knowing the address to call a cab, I’ve hit the ground so hard I forgot where I was only to get back up and keep chasing down the ball, I’ve broken bones, bloodied knees, I’ve left home to live with foreign strangers at fifteen and I still refuse to wear a helmet when I bike. But Jesus, can time management really fuck me over.
As much as it wounds me to say it, I have to admit defeat. I am not superwoman. I am not invincible. Instead, a measly seven-day schedule can have me jittering like a twelve year old boy in a girl’s change room and I still have to somehow come off smooth enough to get laid over the weekend. By Tuesday evening, I’d be four wine bottles deep and praying that the three tests, two projects and twenty working hours I had yet to even start were behind me and that I might wake up next Monday afternoon with nothing to do.
Of course, it’s not as though I could simply stop trying to juggle everything at once. I’m young, robust and I’ll be damned if I’m going to give up on any of the one things I’ve committed myself to – sit around and study all day when I could be sprinting hills before lunch and after class, calling my mom at the grocery store, and chugging mickeys between work and the bar? As if that were even an option. So fine, I gave in to that motherfucker of a schedule I made for myself and dragged my way through weeks of organized exhaustion; I disappeared from my favourite pub, spent Saturday nights too drunk to remember seeing my friends and, worst of all, let my keyboard get dusty. I spent every waking moment wishing I was drunker, or at least bruising bitches on the field, and let myself give up the one of the few things I do alone (excluding the time spend getting myself off).
Now that class is over, though, I can safely say that I have not only restocked my kitchen for the first time in five weeks but I no longer feel the need to neck punch most of the people I am forced to talk to on a daily basis. That being said, having the time to comprehensively envision the painful, prolonged deaths of the customer’s that call in at work has certainly helped. Give me another week or two, some time with my laptop, a good lay and I won’t be able to recall why on earth I shouldn’t do this again next semester. Me, invincible? Obviously.
Not to mention that writing five paragraphs devoted solely to myself has never failed to make me feel better, so fuck you.
Naturally, I’ve spent nearly every day since testing that theory. I’ve gotten lifts from the bar only to spend five hours in a buddy’s drug house prohibited from knowing the address to call a cab, I’ve hit the ground so hard I forgot where I was only to get back up and keep chasing down the ball, I’ve broken bones, bloodied knees, I’ve left home to live with foreign strangers at fifteen and I still refuse to wear a helmet when I bike. But Jesus, can time management really fuck me over.
As much as it wounds me to say it, I have to admit defeat. I am not superwoman. I am not invincible. Instead, a measly seven-day schedule can have me jittering like a twelve year old boy in a girl’s change room and I still have to somehow come off smooth enough to get laid over the weekend. By Tuesday evening, I’d be four wine bottles deep and praying that the three tests, two projects and twenty working hours I had yet to even start were behind me and that I might wake up next Monday afternoon with nothing to do.
Of course, it’s not as though I could simply stop trying to juggle everything at once. I’m young, robust and I’ll be damned if I’m going to give up on any of the one things I’ve committed myself to – sit around and study all day when I could be sprinting hills before lunch and after class, calling my mom at the grocery store, and chugging mickeys between work and the bar? As if that were even an option. So fine, I gave in to that motherfucker of a schedule I made for myself and dragged my way through weeks of organized exhaustion; I disappeared from my favourite pub, spent Saturday nights too drunk to remember seeing my friends and, worst of all, let my keyboard get dusty. I spent every waking moment wishing I was drunker, or at least bruising bitches on the field, and let myself give up the one of the few things I do alone (excluding the time spend getting myself off).
Now that class is over, though, I can safely say that I have not only restocked my kitchen for the first time in five weeks but I no longer feel the need to neck punch most of the people I am forced to talk to on a daily basis. That being said, having the time to comprehensively envision the painful, prolonged deaths of the customer’s that call in at work has certainly helped. Give me another week or two, some time with my laptop, a good lay and I won’t be able to recall why on earth I shouldn’t do this again next semester. Me, invincible? Obviously.
Not to mention that writing five paragraphs devoted solely to myself has never failed to make me feel better, so fuck you.
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