I want to get off

Ugh.  Shattered.  Not sure what is worse, returning from the land of that rather large wall to a shit tin of work (so ocker of me) – or returning to have to sit a 50% economics exam.  Lets go exam for the moment (hell, the work will still be there for me when I get back on Friday).

I’m officially teetering on maxed out, juice is empty, nothing left in the tank.  Exhausted.  And, in need of a perfect glass of champagne, pronto. I know I have plans and reservations in lovely restaurants with good friends to look forward to, but there is this issue of an exam that I should in fact be studying for as I type this.  I can’t.  The words bore me senseless.  The concepts of short-run aggregate supply and aggregate demand will never be useful in my life beyond Thursday, my care factor is really zero.  I have to summon the interest enough to get through the rest of the chapters tomorrow.  The words are coma inducing.  How do people seriously do entire degrees in this mind numbing subject (at this point, I have a fear I’ll end up eating my words and major in it…bad bad dream).

However, I will somehow survive Thursday’s 2 hours of hell, and come out the other side very keen to do some housework.  Yes, you read correctly – housework.  I’m beginning to crave the mundaneness of it.  The sense of achievement of actually completing a task rather than constantly feeling like the hamster on the wheel.  Housework and exercise.  I’m keen for a run, but the weather report for Friday is something ridiculous…38 celsius.  I know I have done some utterly dumb things in my time, but even I know to draw the line in a return to exercise and smashing myself in that kind of heat.  I should really give myself a good couple of days to talk myself into the fact that it really isn’t all that hot.  Once you get over 30, it really is neither here nor there.

What else is happening beyond the merry-go-round?  We are currently smack in the middle of Trolls birthday’s.  Blue Troll turned 10 on Sunday, seriously – I am sure I’m not old enough to be the mother of a 10 year old.  Lucky he has plenty going for him, he’s a keeper and says all the right things to me of late, little charmer.  Pink Troll turns 5 next week.  With the attitude she found somewhere recently, she is lucky she is one gorgeous little poppet.  The Devil and I get to catch up with my good mate The Vegemite Wife and the Husband in two weeks – a rendezvous in Melbourne that will possibly involve one too many G&T’s or Pimms (definite poison of choice), before trekking back to the nations capital for some more Merry Xmas beverages.  There’s some rumour (maybe the retail decorations that have been up since September gave it away – not that I mind, under normal circumstances, I am one to get right into the spirit of it all) that a fat dude in that ridiculous-for-our-weather red suit is due to show up before years end.  2012 done and dusted.

I’ve never been one for those, what do you call them…New Years Resolutions.  Why set myself up for failure.  My life is chaotic enough without torturing myself with some hollow commitment that I made with a glass (or 3) of champagne under my belt.  It did get me thinking though, if I did have a resolution, what would it be?  Then I got distracted.

I’m wrecked, must sleep.

Shrinking - or not

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