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Thursday? It's Thursday? It's January. Woke up last night - 'woke up' is a euphemism - I entered into a brief vague state of delirious semi-consciousness last night and I was dripping with sweat. Dripping. There were drops of sweat rolling down my stomach. I blamed it all on humidity from going to bed with wet hair. Met with adviser. Am on the fast track to being propelled out of here at an alarming rate. What I mean is, I have to start writing a thesis and I have to have it done in three months. I am pessimistic about my ability to do it. Radio show yesterday. It went well and it's exciting. Didn't go to Pilates or anything yesterday; now, given my frightening new thesis timeline, I'm thinking, maybe I'll just start running and not do the other crap. Although I'd still like to. It would be nice to have some muscles. Will probably have to use my Sunday coffee shop visits for school work now. Myrtle B. Jones stories will have to wait, I guess. Which means I'll have a million ideas for them now. It's sunny today and everything's going to be okay, really. Never mind the welling up of tears I experienced two or three times sitting in my adviser's office when he mentioned my difficulties adjusting to being back here. Really. We're fine. p.s. One month till Sean Astin's birthday.
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