This Semester is Like the Indiana Jones Boulder

The longer it goes on, the faster the momentum gets.  I'm not in great shape, so I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be able to run fast enough to keep from getting squashed.

Not grades-wise.  Grades-wise, I'm doing pretty well, if you don't count that son-of-a-bitch history teacher.  (That was really hard to write.  I've been watching episodes of Showtime's Brotherhood and it makes me want to call everybody a "fackin' cacksuckah" and then smash them in the face with a baseball bat.)

It's the work that's killing me.  I'm only working at my job one day a week, and it's still killing me.  Plus, the longer this semester goes on, the tireder I get, which is not a word, but it is now because I just made it up.  It's like one of those merry-go-rounds on the playground, but some asshole is spinning it too fast and there's no way to get off until he stops. fucking. spinning. it.

It doesn't help that I'm a master procrastinator.  I think I actually may have a Ph.D in procrastination.  Which makes April one fucking scary month, because my semester is over on May 11th and I still have an absolute shit-ton of work left to do, including two big papers and two huge presentations.

I would also like to blame all this on my 33rd birthday, which is Saturday.  I'm starting to think that 33 is a magical number that suddenly causes me to become a senior citizen.  My joints ache, I'm having trouble sleeping, I have a huge knot on the side of my neck that might be preparing to have its own solo career.  The wear-and-tear of the last 33 years appears to be catching up with me in the space of a week.

I'm not really sure why 33 is so emotionally difficult for me in particular.  It's not a landmark number.  It is, in fact, a palindrome.  That ought to make me feel better, but it doesn't.  It just makes me tireder.