I'm exhausted. Forget being a lady of leisure, on the brink of full-time unemployment.
I have worked my butt off this week. And it's far from over.
It is a good thing that I love what I do. Because if I hated writing, and tried to swim in a body of water this week, I'd have surely drowned. The bags under my eyes would've acted like iron weights and I'd have sunk to the bottom.
So much for work tapering off. Every spare few hours I get, be it midnight or before dawn, I'm up writing, writing and fucking writing some more. So much to do, so much to prepare. Give me strength.
To top it off, I'm flying to Grahamstown on Saturday, to speak at this year's DCI Blogging Conference. I've prepared the speech, but God only knows I'm gonna need my notes. I'm shitting myself.
And if last year's conference was anything to go by, it's going to be a crazy couple of days.
Will I have to be sent home in a bodybag from Death By Jaegermiester like last year?
I'll try and avoid going to the Rat four times in 24 hours, so hopefully not.
My new room mate has moved in, right. Thus far, the domicile is looking rather good. She's added her little touches like pot plants (that are actually alive! My God, it's a live plant), a fabulous new couch, and a matching mat and towel set to the bathroom. It inspired me to convert the sun/laundry room off my bedroom into a chill room-cum-Zen lounge. All it's missing is a token gypsy. It looks swell.
Pity 'chilling' isn't something familiar in my vocabulary these days. All I've done in there is sit hunched over my laptop, writing for my supper.
A holiday in the Seychelles may not be a bad idea after all. It may just save my lower back, which is in a constant throbbing spasm from 14 hour days this week.
I did go to Giles last night with a mate. Sat at the bar half-comatose while he regaled me with tales of womenisation and crigolf (Golf with tennis balls. Way more fun). Although buggered, was great to spend the evening with him.